Way of the Wicked
by Maugan Ra
Summary: Everyone is the hero of their own story - even the villains. Mirabelle Barca fights to defend her family, her faith and her pride, and if that means she must pledge allegiance to the Lord of Hell and crush her enemies beneath an iron heel, so be it. Novelisation of an Adventure Path by the same name, published by Fire Mountain Games.
1. Act One - A Mysterious Visitor

Way of the Wicked – Chapter One

It was a bad night to be standing guard.

Alone at his post, Private Carl shivered and pulled the thick woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders. Overhead, the sky was dark with rumbling storm-clouds, and he was positive that he'd felt a spot of rain just a moment ago. It would be just his luck to be caught in a downpour now, having already been frozen halfway to the bone by the ferocious winds coming in off the ocean. Nobody liked pulling this shift at the best of times – the gatehouse roof was almost completely exposed to the wind, and there was no room to put a brazier of hot coals to ward away the chill, but when it rained the job went from uncomfortable to downright miserable.

Once again, he cursed that bastard Blackerley, who had assigned him this shift earlier in this week, and that bastard Hanz, who was meant to be standing it with him. They were both nearby, he knew, probably down in the bottom level of the gatehouse playing cards and drinking some of the endless supply of mead that Blackerley always seemed to have available. The Warden would throw a fit if he knew about it, but it was fast approaching dusk and the Warden never stepped out of his tower this late unless someone summoned him, which none of the guards were ever inclined to do.

It wasn't that Mattius Richter was a bad man, exactly, but in the opinion of everyone else who worked there the old man was simply a bit too inflexible to get along with, too obsessed with his rules and the pursuit of justice to willingly turn a blind eye to those things that made life worth living. Bit of an ironic attitude for them to hold, really, considering that Fort Branderscar tended to serve as a prison for the most infamous and dangerous criminals in all of Talingarde, but that was just how things had worked out.

Besides, Wizards were just plain _creepy_. If the Warden preferred to stay in his tower and read whatever smutty romance novel it was he'd had imported recently rather than walk the walls and punish a bit of harmless slacking off by turning them all into frogs, then that was just fine by Carl.

His musings were interrupted by a rhythmic flicker of light from the mainland. Frowning, Carl picked up his own lamp and returned the signal, closing and opening the shutter in a particular pattern that he'd long since memorised. They'd used to use signal horns for between the fortress and the small guard station at the far end of the bridge to the mainland, but after a few too many messages were lost beneath the constant roar of the ocean all around them they'd switched to lanterns instead.

The signal came again, and he had to wrack his brain for a moment to interpret it. _Visitor_ , that was it, and not anyone official judging by the lack of any qualifying additions to the code. That was strange. Oh, certainly the prisoners kept here were entitled to the occasional visit from friends and family, but as a general rule only the very worst kinds of scum were sent to Branderscar, and few of those had anyone that cared enough to make the trip. It had been months since anything like this had happened, and besides, they were only holding one real inmate right now.

But who would come all this way to visit _her_?

-/-

It was cold in the cell, the air filled with the kind of icy chill that sunk right into your bones and stayed there until you'd forgotten what it felt like to be warm. The prisoner had known cold before, of course, thought herself accustomed to it… but never like this. Even in the depths of the worst northern winters, when the wind howled and the ground was covered with snow for months at a time she'd been able to ward off the chill with the aid of fire and thick clothing, but here she had neither of those. The only source of heat and light was a torch in the corridor outside her cell, and her fine and practical clothes had been stripped from her when she arrived, replaced with ragged scraps of fabric that only barely served to protect her modesty.

Another gust of wind blew in through the barred window and she shuddered, the involuntary motion setting her chains clinking softly. It had to be deliberate – she refused to believe that the guards were unaware of the slow torture their facility inflicted on those incarcerated within. It didn't matter how thick the stone walls were if you broke them with barred windows in every cell, and any fool would be able to see that chaining someone with their hands and legs at full extension just meant they couldn't even curl up to preserve heat. Was she meant to be grateful that they'd at least secured her in a way that allowed her to sit down? That saved her from slowly choking under her own weight, true, but given everything else the net result just wound up exchanging one kind of execution for another.

What was the point of it all? She was already under sentence of death, and for all their faults she'd never thought of those who worked in the justice system as being _sadistic_. Was this meant to be some form of involuntary penance? She'd heard that some of the more ruthless sects believed that suffering was the path to enlightenment, that someone could cleanse themselves of their sins in the eyes of Mitra through sufficient pain and devotion.

She snorted softly to herself at the thought, unable to muster up the energy for a real laugh. If that was what they were hoping for, then they were going to be sorely disappointed. She'd spent most of her adult life surrounded by the faithful of Mitra, and if all of their self-righteous preaching hadn't elicited a conversion already then the chances of her breaking under a bit of prolonged discomfort were slim. Especially not if this was how they treated those they wanted to 'save'.

A dull throb of pain from her arm reinforced that point, and she bit her lip rather than give her tormentors the satisfaction of seeing her cry. It was just one more reminder of what they truly thought of her, no matter what anyone else might try to claim – a runic 'F', seared into the meat of her forearm by hot irons shortly after arriving; the symbol of the Forsaken, those condemned to death or life imprisonment by the justice of the courts. No one had ever escaped from Branderscar before, but even if she could, there was no life waiting for her while she bore that mark upon her flesh.

Once, she had been _Captain_ Mirabelle Barca, veteran of the North Watch and scion of one of the nation's oldest and most noble Houses, but no longer. The moment the courts had named her 'Forsaken' all of that had been taken from her – her inheritance confiscated, her commission dishonourably discharged, her very name blotted out from all official records of service. Her family had been furious of course, had done their best to appeal the decision and pursued just about every legal means at their disposal (and probably quite a few less than legal ones as well) but at the end of the day, there hadn't been anything they could do.

Murder wasn't something most people were willing to easily forgive, after all.

Her musings were interrupted by the low creaking noise of an opening door, followed by the sound of booted feet on the stone floor. Gritting her teeth, Mira took a moment to control her emotions and remove any sign of discomfort from her expression. Her pride was the last thing she had left, and she would be damned before she allowed anyone to see her without it.

She'd been expecting one of the guards making an infrequent patrol, maybe with a comrade along for conversation and possible backup. It was something of a surprise, then, when a full party of no less than five soldiers came along the corridor and stopped in front of her cell. Four of them were just the regular shift, common soldiers virtually indistinguishable from one another in her mind, but the man in the lead was one she would remember for as long as she drew breath: Sergeant Thomas Blackerley, a short, surprisingly portly soldier with greasy black hair and glittering eyes. He was the one who had branded her on her arrival, pressing the glowing iron into her arm while two of his men held her down. Her screams had barely seemed to matter to him – indeed, she had a sneaking suspicion that he had enjoyed it.

"It's your lucky day, prisoner." Blackerley said roughly, pulling the ring of keys free of his belt and unlocking the door to her cell. "Your sister has come to visit."

Mira kept her face carefully blank, not allowing any kind of reaction to give away the truth of her thoughts, but inside she was frowning. She'd had a sister once, but little Lisa had died of the pox years ago. Clearly, someone was sending her a message – after all, if they'd just wanted to masquerade as a family member it would have been far more sensible to simply pick someone who actually existed. What were they playing at? Still, she could worry about that later – right now, it was far more important to make sure that none of the guards picked up on the discrepancy. A distraction was in order.

"Why thank you sergeant." She said slowly, her voice still tinged with the carefully controlled edges of a highborn accent. "You are doing me a great kindness. Maybe if you loosened these chains a little, I could return it in kind."

One of the soldiers near the back of the group smiled lecherously at the implication, but Blackerley just grunted. "No, I like having eyes. Get her up, but don't loosen the bonds."

Mira just smiled, as sweetly as she could, while the soldier at the back of the group blanched and took half a step back out of fear. Apparently the sergeant had actually read up on her history before she was transferred here. It was almost a pity. Not that she'd been exactly intending to _invite_ that kind of trouble, but she'd always been something of a cynic at heart. A lone female prisoner, clad only in threadbare rags and soon to reach the point of being unable to tell anyone anything ever again? Some men would find that combination irresistible, so she made a point of heading off any such intentions before they could fully form. All too many people allowed their base desires to dictate their actions, but she'd yet to find many who would pursue them if they believed they'd lose body parts in the process. Magical healing might remove the physical scars, but the memories would last forever.

Of course, she was uncomfortably aware that if the soldiers decided to make a serious attempt at exploiting their prisoner anyway that there probably wasn't a great deal that she could realistically do about it. She was chained up quite thoroughly, with little ability to maneuver or escape, and chances were anyone who thought to try something would have the advantage of numbers and equipment – more than one piece of scum had proven quite willing to beat their prey half unconscious before taking advantage, and the guards here all carried hefty wooden clubs for subduing unruly prisoners. Her surest defense, then, was confidence and reputation. If they felt convinced that she would maim anyone who strayed too close, they were much more likely to take their 'affections' elsewhere.

Two of the other guards moved into the cell, seizing her by either arm as Blackerley released the locks holding her manacles to the floor and wall. Mira hardly thought it necessary – resisting at this point would gain her precisely nothing, when her hands and feet were still chained together – but stayed silent all the same. At least this way she'd be able to move to some degree, maybe work some heat back into her frozen limbs.

Never releasing their holds on her arms, the guards marched her out of the cell and down the corridor towards the guard post at the end. As they went, Mira took the opportunity presented to glance around for a few moments, checking the other cells. She'd had a bag over her head when she was first brought here, and from her position chained to the wall of her cell she had hardly been given much of an opportunity to take stock of her fellow inmates. Long habit had conditioned her towards evaluating and considering any possible resource when at all possible, but even a quick glance here confirmed the worst. There were no other prisoners, each cell standing empty and unlocked. Did Branderscar regularly stand so empty? Surely not, for even in a country as virtuous as this there had to be a regular stream of true villains condemned to the worst prison able to take them. Perhaps she had simply come at a quiet time then, or else just missed the last round of executions and deportations that had cleared out the former residents. Either way, it seemed there would be no help from fellow inmates – she would live or die on her own.

The guard post was little more than a small room with a table and a pair of chairs inside, separated from the actual cellblock by a heavy wooden door. Despite herself, Mira frowned at the design choice. The stairs in the corner of the room made this small guard station a natural choke point for controlling any attempted breakout, but the door prevented any of the guards from actively watching the prisoners, and from what she'd seen so far they only patrolled the cell area every few hours. True, keeping the door closed meant that the heat from the large fireplace on the far wall stayed in, but were the guards here truly so slack? And if they were, was there any way to exploit it?

Not giving her time to really consider what she'd seen, the soldiers marched her straight across the guard station and through the door on the far side. The small room beyond was illuminated only by a burning torch on one wall, without any kind of window. Mira's eyes flickered back and forth, taking note of the iron fittings still embedded in the walls and the faded stains of red and brown on the floor, and promptly revised her earlier assumptions about the cruelty of Talingarde's justice system. True, the place looked to have been remodeled in recent years and evidently wasn't much used, but she could almost _feel_ the terrible things that had been done in this place.

The woman waiting within should have looked comically out of place, clad in a long black mourning dress and wearing a silken veil, but something about the confidence in her stance made her seem right at home. Even dressed for a funeral, she looked stunning, the sort of woman who could stride into a noble ballroom and dominate the scene within moments. Her hair was a blond so pale it might have almost been white, and the eyes that studied the new arrivals from behind her veil were a stunning emerald green. Indeed, she almost looked _too_ good; even the most attractive people tended to have minute flaws if you looked closely enough, but the woman in the veil might almost have walked out of a flattering portrait rather than anywhere real.

"Thank you for bringing my beloved sister to me." The woman said, her voice a low silken purr as she addressed the sergeant. "Please, might we have some privacy?"

Blackerley nodded, and the two soldiers holding Mira's arms escorted her over to a small chair in the middle of the room that was the only piece of furniture. They sat her down firmly and then backed away quickly, as though releasing some kind of wild beast that might turn and lunge for them at any moment. Then, without a word, all of the men left the room and closed the door behind them.

"Good to see you again, dearest." The veiled woman said with a smile, looking Mira up and down with a kind of detached interest. "I hope you haven't been treated _too_ badly."

For a moment, Mira wanted to snap out a sarcastic retort, to interrupt whatever elaborate game her visitor was playing with a few sharp words and a scowl, but she fought down the impulse a moment later. Whoever this was, they were here for a reason, and if she gave into the urge to snarl at her she might never learn what that reason was.

"Your concern is appreciated." She said instead, keeping her voice level with a deliberate effort of will. "You'll have to forgive me, but I don't know your name. A bit shameful for a long-lost sister, but it's been a stressful week."

That earned her a throaty laugh, and a small nod. "I imagine it has. You may call me Tiadora."

Despite the situation, Mira smiled slightly, noting the choice of words: 'you may call me', not 'my name is'. A distinction that might mean nothing or everything, depending on precisely what it was the visitor was intending and who she was beyond these walls. This got more interesting by the second.

"Well, Tiadora, good as it is to see you I have to wonder at the timing." She said by way of response, tilting her head in curiosity. "It must have been quite a journey to get here. What brings you all this way?"

"Very well, we shall get straight to business. I am here to extend an invitation." Tiadora said simply, turning and beginning to pace around the room with a slow, almost predatory grace, her dress making a soft swishing noise as she moved. "I have a patron who is very interested in meeting you. Unfortunately, he is unwilling to set foot in a place like this personally, so you will have to go to him."

Her slow pacing had taken the other woman out of Mira's immediate line of sight, but she refused to crane her neck or turn around on the chair to follow the movement. Something told her that allowing the other woman to control the flow of the conversation to that extent would be a mistake, a sign of weakness that she could not afford to show. Even so, her heart began to race as the full implications of Tiadora's words began to set in. No one had ever escaped from Branderscar Prison before, but then not many had ever tried, especially with help from the outside. After a certain point the place's reputation had become self-sustaining - if escape was impossible, trying would simply waste valuable resources for no gain. Better to strike while the prisoners were in transit, or else write them off as lost altogether. But if someone had decided to make the attempt anyway, while the guards were so evidently slack...

"That is an intriguing proposition." Mira said evenly, an edge of anticipation colouring her tone. "I should very much like to meet this patron of yours, but I am afraid that unless you have brought a Royal Pardon with you arranging such a thing would be... difficult."

Not that she seriously thought a royal pardon was even a remote possibility of course. The House of Darius _hated_ the House of Barca with a cold but unrelenting passion, had done so ever since winning the throne of Talingarde from them eighty years ago. They might have spared their rivals from death, continued to tolerate their presence in the courts out of pragmatic necessity, but to release a scion of Barca from prison? Especially one convicted of murdering a man in a duel, a law that they themselves had personally instituted as a way of distinguishing themselves from the prior rulers? No, that was never going to happen.

Two slender hands landed on Mira's shoulders, her visitor having apparently moved up behind her while she was lost in bitter consideration. "No pardon I am afraid, but I was instructed to give you a small trinket." Tiadora said, leaning down to all but whisper the words into captive ears. Her breath was icy cold, and this close Mira could detect a subtle resonance in every word, as though a second person was repeating what was being said a fraction of a second afterwards. She fought down the instinctive disquiet stirred itself in her gut at that realisation. That Tiadora was more than she appeared was hardly a surprise - the real question was what. Still, any thoughts on that topic would have to wait, as the slender hands moved from her shoulders and down her arms to wrap themselves around her bound wrists.

"Magic can be a potent tool, if you know how to use it." Tiadora whispered in her ear, now standing so close as to be almost embracing her. With careful motions she opened the fists that Mira's hands had instinctively made and pressed something small and silken into her palm. "It can bring strength to the weak, tear the mighty from their thrones, and hide the true nature of a thing from inquisitive eyes. In the right hands, even the slightest amount can be put to a great many ends."

Releasing her, Tiadora straightened up and stepped back, allowing Mira to look down and see what it was she had been given. It was a veil, the same one that Tiadora had been wearing when she was escorted into the room, made of fine quality silk and covered in small patterns of silver thread. Actually, now that she looked closer, some of those shapes seemed to have recognisable forms - a blade, a small bottle, a coil of rope...

Eyes widening in surprise, Mira's head snapped up to regard the graceful form of her visitor, who had now moved back around to stand in front of her once more. Seeing the light of understanding dawn, Tiadora simply smiled and inclined her head. "As I said, a trinket. My patron is not in the habit of solving the problems of others for them, so nothing in his gift will see you vanish from your cell or fly from the castle's highest tower. But in the hands of one of sufficient cunning and will, even the most basic of tools can be turned to the greatest of ends."

 _A test_ , Mira realized in that instant, her mind racing. Well, it made a certain kind of sense. Whoever Tiadora was working for evidently had a considerable degree of power and influence, but not an endless supply of either. Harboring a fugitive would represent a considerable expenditure of resources, especially one high-profile enough to be incarcerated in Branderscar, so naturally the prospective employer would want to make sure that she was worth spending that kind of time and effort on. If she could escape from here with basic resources and her own natural abilities then she would have proved herself worthy; if not, all that would be lost was a single magical bauble. All in all, it pointed to someone wealthy, ambitious and absolutely ruthless. She liked the sound of him already.

"Trinket or not, I am grateful." Mira said at last, choosing each word with deliberate care. "A meeting seems a small price to pay for such generosity. Might I presume that you already have a venue in mind?"

"But of course." Tiadora replied. "The mainland near this fortress is dominated by a great series of marshes. On the far side lies what the locals call the Old Moor Road. Make it there, and look for a manor house with a single lantern burning in an upstairs window."

The blond woman glanced over at the door to the small meeting room and frowned ever-so-slightly. "However, it seems our time is up. I understand your execution is scheduled for three days hence, so that's what you have to work with. Don't disappoint me, dearest."

A moment later and her expression changed; the amusement and arrogance fading away as though they had never been, swiftly replaced by the very picture of solemn grief. A heartbeat after that, the door to the room swung open, and Sergeant Blackerley entered.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to wrap things up there, ma'am." He said apologetically, inclining his head to Tiadora. For her part, the blond woman simply nodded, the glimmer of unshed tears in her emerald eyes.

"I understand, sergeant." She said in a voice of complete misery, leaving Mira in more than a little shock at the sudden change of demeanor. "Thank... thank you for letting me see my sister one more time. You have done me a great kindness. _There will be no need to search her._ "

As she spoke that last sentence, the strange resonance returned to Tiadora's voice, and the air itself almost seemed to shiver with the potency of the words. Blackerley didn't seem to notice, simply blinking once and then nodding again. "A great kindness... of course, ma'am. For you, 'tis nothing. Now, would you please come with me?"

With that, the two of them left the room, neither one so much as glancing behind them. Mira frowned slightly, and mentally upgraded the threat that Tiadora evidently posed. True, the blond woman had seemed to be on her side so far, but how far could a woman trust her own impressions when someone was throwing around that kind of magic? She didn't feel inclined to trust Tiadora or otherwise obey her every whim, which probably ruled out anything too potent, but if her visitor had employed something more subtle in their brief meeting how would she ever be able to tell?

Then the guards were returning, and there was no more time for doubt. With a quick motion of her wrist Mira gathered the veil and held it tight in her hand, out of sight of the soldiers that seized her arms and hauled her back to her feet. As they escorted her back to her cell, she made sure to keep her head bowed and her shoulders slumped, not daring to look either of them in the eye lest they see the keen anticipation that smoldered there like glowing embers. Let them think her defeated and helpless, broken by this final proof that her friends and family had abandoned her. She had tools, now, and allies waiting for her beyond the walls of the prison, and that was more than enough. They had grown slack in their vigilance, convinced of their own superiority, and she would make them pay for it before the day was done.

In silence they hauled her back into her cell, one man all but pinning her against the wall while the other reattached her manacles to the heavy chains bolted into the walls and floor. It was almost amusing, the way they so visibly relaxed once she was secured once more, and without so much as a second glance they locked the door to her cell and returned to their guard post down the hall, already discussing the visit with one another in low voices.

For twenty minutes or more, Mira did not move so much as a muscle, content to hang limply in her chains and wait. The arrival of a visitor would have excited the guards, especially one as beautiful and mysterious as Tiadora. They would spend some time discussing it with one another, indulging in idle speculation and the occasional crude remark for as long as they could reasonably expect to get away with before returning to their posts. It would do her no good if she slipped her chains and made it out of the cell block only to run into a group of half a dozen soldiers lingering in a hallway.

Through the small window to her cell she could just about see the sky, which was currently covered by thick clouds. That was good. Night had fallen barely an hour ago, if she reckoned correctly, which meant that the only real illumination for most of the prison would come from moonlight. An overcast night favored her, especially so long as she was careful to avoid ruining her night vision by staring at any torches or staying too close to the illuminated areas. The only thing that would make for a better situation would be... yes, there it was, a distant rumble of thunder and the sound of rain on stone. Not only would a storm provide further cover for any sounds she might make in her escape, it would sap the attention of the guards and drive them to huddle up under their cloaks or in doorways rather than keeping a proper watch for any trouble. Either way, she was unlikely to find a better set of circumstances before her three days were up.

In the cold darkness of the cell, Mira smiled to herself. It was time to begin.

The first step was to do something about her manacles. Carefully, Mira opened her fists and took a firm hold of the veil in both hands. The light was poor, but the silver thread made the shapes sewn into the silk easy to see even in the shadows, and after a few moments of study she managed to identify what she was after - a series of lines and coils that hinted at a small collection of fine tools. Moving with exquisite care, determined not to ruin her chances by dropping things on the floor and out of reach, she pinched the relevant section of the veil between two fingers and _pulled_. There was a soft tearing noise, and a moment later she was holding a finely-made lock pick in one hand.

Getting the pick into the keyhole on her manacles was more than a little awkward, given the distinct lack of flexibility offered by her bindings, but she had hours of time to work with and enough patience to make the best of them. Fortunately, it didn't actually _require_ hours of work to achieve - a few minutes of fiddling and she was rewarded with a brief _click_ as the manacles snapped open. Letting out a long sigh of relief, Mira brought the pick to her mouth and kissed it softly, grateful beyond measure that she'd listened to her uncle all those years ago and invested some time into understanding simple mechanical systems. Then, relishing the new mobility, she leaned over and got to work on the chains binding her legs.

The taste of freedom was finer than the sweetest wine, and the noblewoman had to stifle a joyous shout as she removed the last of the chains and stood unbound for the first time in weeks. It wasn't the physical restrictions of being imprisoned that had bothered her so much as the cold sense of utter helplessness the manacles brought with them. They were a symbol more than anything else, a reminder that whoever she had once been outside these walls, now she was no more than a helpless prisoner, unable to exert the slightest control over her own life or even the manner of her death. To be free of them at last was a gift almost beyond price, and at that moment Mirabelle Barca knew she would rather die than be chained again.

With quick, almost savage movements she tore the prison rags from her body, casting them aside piece by piece until she stood nude in the middle of the cell. The crude garments were a symbol every bit as much as the chains - too thin to offer protection from the elements and too ragged to preserve her modesty, they served only to define her as a lowly prisoner in the eyes of any that might care to look. If the price for defying such a degrading symbol was that she had to escape this place naked then it was one she would be happy to pay. Fortunately, though, a quick check revealed that such measures would not be necessary. Among the items included in the veil was a simple cloth bag, packed with a complete set of fresh clothes - a shirt, trousers and a comfortable set of walking boots. True, they were a far cry from the quality clothing she could expect as a noblewoman or the military splendour of her formal uniform, but they were sturdy, practical and perfectly fitted to her size. There were certainly worse options, so she donned them without delay, casting the occasional wary look back at the corridor outside her cell. It would not be ideal if a guard were to come along and discover her now, for there were few situations less conducive to self-defence than being found halfway through getting dressed.

Thus properly adorned once more, she quickly scanned the remainder of the veil for more shapes, pulling each implement free as she identified it. Better to have them on hand should the need arise rather than trying to locate and draw them when time was of the essence, after all. A pair of wickedly sharp daggers slid into the appropriate loops on her belt, and a small pouch full of coin was hung next to them, ensuring that she had the tools to deal with those situations that required either violence or bribery. A small lantern was considered and then discarded, for fear of drawing attention from any guard that might glance in her direction. A long coil of rope was wrapped tightly around her torso, passing over one shoulder and between her breasts to hang down by the opposite hip, and a small vial filled with red liquid was carefully stored in the same bag that had held her clothes before likewise being hung from her belt.

It was the last item, however, that truly drew her attention. A slender silver necklace, adorned with a simple icon wrought of twisted iron. She recognized the symbol instantly - there was only one being that used the inverted pentagram as its symbol, one name that every child in Talingarde was taught to hate and fear virtually from birth.

 _Asmodeus_.

Well, that certainly answered a few questions, even if it did raise a dozen more. For a long moment, Mira simply stared at the innocuous symbol resting in the palm of her hand, pondering what it might mean. She took some pride in the fact that her family's tutors had never seen fit to hide the true nature of the world from her, so she knew considerably more about the Devil-God than most people in Talingarde. Her ancestors had worshipped him once, paying homage and obeying his precepts in exchange for rewards of power and wealth, an infernal patronage that had likely had more than a little to do with their original ascent to power. That had changed with the rise of the House of Darius, as Talingarde's new rulers held themselves in strict opposition to the philosophy of Hell and had stripped the Infernal Church of most of their power the moment they took the throne.

Nowadays, there _was_ no Infernal Church in Talingarde, the worship of Asmodeus and his kind having been criminalised and then thoroughly stamped out over successive generations of Darian rule. Even his name had been scoured from the history books, replaced in most cases by the simple sobriquet of 'The Adversary' or any number of other sinister but non-descriptive terms. Possessing an icon of his faith or even knowing too much on the subject could see a man burned at the stake, their property confiscated by the Church and all rights and privileges they might have once held revoked. If Tiadora and her nameless patron were indeed followers of Asmodeus, as the amulet seemed to imply, they would by necessity be among the very last of their kind in the entirety of the country.

And if that _was_ the case, what was she going to do about it? Slowly, Mira found her eyes drawn to the brand on her forearm, hidden now by cloth but still occasionally pulsing with burning pain. Mitra was for all intents and purposes the only god of note in modern Talingarde, his Church officially apolitical but in reality fully entwined with every aspect of the power structure. To be labelled as Forsaken was to be named an enemy of all Talingarde, cast out into the wilderness and barred from entry into all civilised society. She might find old friends and relatives who yet regarded her fondly enough to hide and shelter her for a time, but nothing they could ever do would revoke the sentence of death that the brand levied upon her. Once news of her escape was made public she would be hunted day and night by knight and peasantry alike, tracked across the land like a lowly beast and condemned to slaughter by men who knew themselves to be righteous.

In the face of that opposition, she had but two options. She could flee, running far and fast enough to escape the hounds of Darius that bayed at her heels, changing her name and past to forge a new life beyond the borders of the country where her enemies would not bother to pursue. It was not an especially appealing thought. For all its flaws, for all that the ruling powers had outlawed and condemned her, Talingarde was still her home. This was her country, the land that her fathers had ruled and that she had defended through years of service and the thought of simply abandoning it even now was enough to sicken her.

The other option was to fight, strike back against those who sought her death, overturn the social order that exiled her and the Royal House that condemned her. That was certainly more appealing, even if she knew enough to recognise her own pride and spiteful nature colouring the argument, but she was not so foolish as to believe that it was a goal that could be achieved on her own. She would need allies, resources and patronage of her own to even begin to approach such an ideal outcome, factors to level the playing field and allow her personal strength and willpower to see her through.

If that was the case, why _not_ take up the cause of Asmodeus? The Darians were well known to have the support of the god Mitra, supporting and being supported by his Church to the point where the two institutions were virtually one and the same. To fight them with any hope of success she would need a divine patron of her own, and if the Lord of Light had marked her as his enemy, did it not make sense to seek support from the Lord of Darkness, who once had ruled supreme but was now cast out and condemned by the people of this land? For all their talk of dark lords and wicked champions of evil, not even the Mitrans had dared to suggest that Asmodeus would fail to support one who fought in his name, and right now she needed that support more than anything. And if pledging allegiance to such a being was to court damnation as the priests said, well, was she not already damned in their eyes? It wasn't as if she had anything else to really lose.

Decided, she slipped the necklace over her head and clutched the pointed star it bore in an iron grip, feeling the sharpened edges of the icon dig into the flesh of her hand as she tightened her grasp. She might be ignorant of the formal rites and incantations designed to draw the attention of the divine, but one common element in just about every story she had ever heard was how often the gods responded to even the simplest acts of sincerity and faith. With that in mind, she closed her eyes and focused her thoughts upon everything she had ever read or heard about the Lord of Hell.

"Oh Prince of Darkness and Lord of the Pit, mighty Asmodeus, hear my cry." She said softly, pitching her voice low to avoid being overheard by a passing guard but infusing each word with every scrap of sincerity and desperate will she could muster. "I am Mirabelle, forsaken scion of the House of Barca, they who served you once and would do so again. I call upon the pacts my ancestors made, the oaths of service sworn upon my blood. Let me by thy instrument upon this mortal plane, an agent of thy infernal will. Give me the strength to cast down the House of Darius, and I shall serve in their place at your command. Give me fortitude to resist the searing light of Mitra, and I shall restore your church to its rightful place in this land. And above all else, oh Master of Hell, give me _vengeance_ on those who have wronged me, and I shall carve your name into the very soul of this nation in endless tribute. By blood and fire, so let it be."

At first, the words came slowly, the noblewoman struggling to give shape to thoughts and concepts unfamiliar or dimly remembered, but each in turn seemed easier to say than the previous, until oaths and prayers alike were streaming from her mouth in an endless litany. It was as though some great dam within her mind had given way, and everything she had ever thought but not dared to say came rushing forth in a great torrent, her hopes and desires and very soul given form and cast out into the world in desperate invocation.

And as the echoes of the last word sounded in the darkness of her cold stone cell, she was answered.

It began with a whisper, an sibilant hiss on the very edge of her hearing that gradually grew louder, as though some great serpent was drawing ever closer. There were words there, the distinctive cadence of speech, but she did not recognise the tongue and could not determine their meaning. In her cell, the shadows seemed to grow deeper, the light from the distant torch slowly being strangled by the growing darkness that pooled around her kneeling form like water. It should have been cold, the endless chill of the costal night seeping into her motionless body as it had when she was bound in chains, but that did not happen. Instead, the air in the cell began to grow warm, as though heated by some great fire just out of sight. Given the discomfort she had so recently been enduring on account of the damp chill that pervaded the prison, Mira could not help but revel in the increased heat, the fierce joy in her heart only magnified by the evidently supernatural origins of the manifestation. She had spoken prayers to Mitra before, usually when it became necessary to convince her superiors and fellow soldiers that she was as devout as they in the name of political expediency, but the Lord of Light had never answered her. This, though... this was everything she had ever wanted and more, a sign from a deity that she was worthy of even the slightest attention.

Before her eyes, the heavy metal lock that held her cell door shut began to glow, at first a dull cherry red before progressing through to a brilliant white heat. The air around it shimmered with the excess heat, and with a slow inevitability the metal began to bend and melt under the touch of the magical flames. Drizzles of molten metal fell from the rapidly collapsing lock to pool upon the stone floor, and before long there simply wasn't enough of the lock remaining to hold the door close. It was at that point that the glow began to die back down, whatever infernal energy had been responsible draining away along with the deeper shadows and distant noises to leave her alone in the cell once again. Even so, Mira didn't mind - it would be almost childish to demand more at this point, now that her prayer had been acknowledged in such an obvious fashion.

True, she could likely have gotten pass the lock herself given time, especially with the aid of the fine tools her mysterious benefactor had smuggled in for her, but it seemed likely that was half the point. Asmodeus was not the kind of god to solve all of her problems for her just because she asked, nor would he provide a solution to a problem that she could not overcome on her own. Perhaps later, once she had proven herself worthy of greater investment she might be rewarded with such infernal assistance, but for now a simple sign of acknowledgement and something to speed the wheels was more than enough.

Waiting until the metal had cooled enough to be safe to approach, Mira rose from her kneeling position and carefully pushed the door to her cell. It swung open silently, and she stepped out into the corridor beyond, hands already caressing the hilts of her twinned daggers.

It was time to leave this wretched place, and gods have mercy on anyone that got in her way.


	2. Act One - Prison Break

Way of the Wicked Chapter Two

The dice, carved from pale wood and crudely marked with simple numerals, made a pleasant clattering noise as they rolled onto the table, and Victor couldn't help but scowl when he saw how they'd landed. Five of swords… precisely what he _didn't_ need in order to finish this round on a solid footing.

Across from him, Carver grinned broadly at the sight and scooped the dice up again in one massive, bear-like paw. "Think that makes it my win, right?"

Victor's only response was to scowl even harder, before nodding grudgingly as his opponent laughed at his success. They'd been playing for close to an hour now, with a short interruption from their mysterious visitor earlier on, and he was growing steadily more and more convinced that his opponent was cheating somehow. Carver didn't look like the sort of man to swindle a fellow soldier out of his hard-earned gold, but then the best cheats never did, and it couldn't be deny that the big man seemed to have a never-ended procession of 'lucky rolls' that turned up when he most needed them.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up." He grumbled, sitting back in his chair and making a rude gesture with one hand in Carver's general direction. "You can't win forever, old man, and when you finally screw up I'll be waiting."

There wasn't much sense in trying to call him out on his cheating, after all. Carver would only deny the accusation, which wasn't something that could be easily proved in any case, and then all he'd get was a distinctly frostier reception from his fellow guard whenever the duty roster brought them together again in the future.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, pup." Carver said with a chuckle, returning the dice to the small pouch he wore on his belt. "Anyway, you going to the gatehouse tonight?"

Victor shook his head with a sigh. "I can't. Need to keep some of my gold for leave, and if I go I'll lose it all. That Blackerley is a damned thief."

Victor supposed that he should probably refer to him as 'Sergeant Blackerley', but somehow it never turned out that way. Thomas Blackerley just didn't strike him as a sergeant, or indeed as anyone in any kind of authority, which was honestly rather worrying for a man in charge of the guards at one of the country's leading prisons. Had they met anywhere else Victor would have been convinced that he was speaking to another regular soldier, maybe one with some kind of unofficial rank due to seniority and connections but certainly no formal authority. He seemed to regularly go out of his way to undo any progress that might signal him out as anything other than 'one of the lads', which made him easy to get along with but not exactly a sterling exemplar of his Majesty's armed forces.

The games in the gatehouse were just one example of that trend. Every few days, Blackerley and any of the men who were off duty – and one or two who were technically meant to be on it – would make their way to one of the rooms in the castle's main gatehouse and spend the next several hours playing cards. The sergeant always seemed to have an endless supply of reasonably good-quality booze to dispense to his comrades, and the positioning allowed them plenty of time to spot anyone more official coming along and get rapidly back to their posts. Not that it was a serious concern, with the Warden all but refusing to leave his tower at night and the nearest other garrison over a day's travel away, but even someone as thoroughly laid back as Blackerley had to keep some kind of eye out for potential trouble.

"Well, if you _know_ that, why do you keep going?" Carver said with a smile that was almost paternal, sitting back in his seat and adjusting the belt on his uniform for more comfort. Victor had to admit that he had a point. Going to the regular games in the gatehouse wasn't doing his purse any favours, and he was reasonably sure that the main reason that Blackerley continued running them was because he was carefully filling his own pockets with the proceeds, but he still felt oddly compelled to go along anyway. Part of it was peer pressure, the desire not to make any enemies while he worked through a posting far away from any other units and was stuck next to the same cast of characters that he could ill afford to antagonise, but that on its own wasn't really enough to justify everything. In the end, he could only really come up with one other easily defined reason.

"The beer's good."

At that, Carver snorted, a noise somewhere between amusement and disgust. It wasn't like the old soldier was any different to the rest of them, any more virtuous or less likely to indulge in the petty pastimes that made life bearable, but he _was_ old enough to remember when things had been different.

"Light, but this place has gone down the pits. Gambling, drinking on duty… Captain Callidan would have had a fit if he'd still been around to see all this."

"The Warden would probably be furious too." Victor said by way of agreement. "Or at least he would, if he ever came down to walk the walls, rather than sitting in his tower all night petting his owl."

"Is that what they call it now?" Carver said with a grin, making a crude gesture with one hand. He chuckled lewdly and then nodded in the direction of the cell block door. "Then again, maybe I shouldn't blame him, not when he's got such a rare beauty to _motivate_ him."

Victor laughed, and pitched a small pebble at his filthy-minded comrade in mock-protest. They both knew that he'd meant the comment literally – Mattias Richter was known to have a pet owl that he was very fond of – but the old soldier had never been one to pass up a chance for a crude remark.

And he wasn't exactly wrong, Victor had to admit. Mirabelle Barca, the solitary prisoner currently confined within Branderscar, was a rare beauty indeed. Long dark hair like black silk, eyes that shone like emeralds, a body made lean and toned by years of military service… as far as he was concerned she was just about perfect. He'd heard people described as a 'dangerous beauty' before, but the fallen captain was perhaps the only woman he'd ever seen who truly exemplified the term. Something about her managed to be both deeply appealing and yet undeniably menacing at the same time, even when clad in rags and branded as a common criminal. Perhaps especially then, given the kind of determined confidence that she had held herself with, an iron will that had stood in stark contrast to just about every other prisoner he'd seen pass through these walls over the years.

It was a pity she was due to be executed, really, but what else was there to do? The crimes of each prisoner tended to make the rounds through the garrison fairly swiftly after each one arrived, and the consensus in this case was that the noble Captain Barca was a murderer. No one was quite sure what had prompted the deed, and the specifics of the tale tended to vary depending on which version you heard, but there were certain elements common enough to be accepted as fact. She had lured one of her fellow officers out into a field near the fortress where they served, stabbed him through the heart and then claimed to know nothing of his whereabouts when she returned to her post. It was apparently only due to the testimony of another soldier who'd been hidden nearby that she'd been caught at all, her guilt confirmed by the divine light of Mitra and the judgement of the courts.

Murder, especially the murder of a fellow officer while on active duty on the Wall, was among the most serious secular crimes someone in Talingarde could commit. For decades the punishment for such a deed had been execution by beheading, and though her trial had dragged out for a considerable length of time the outcome had never really been in any doubt. Victor had heard that the High Inquisitor himself was intending to preside over the execution, though hopefully that was just a rumour. Lord Tyrath was an almost proverbially unforgiving of any laxity among those he held authority over, and if he decided to conduct a surprise inspection of the facilities while he was here the outcome would probably be ugly. Maybe he could arrange to take leave around that time, just in case…

Victor's musings were interrupted at that point by a faint noise from the direction of the cell-block. Frowning, the young guard glanced over at the door, wondering if he'd imagined it. Distance and the thick oak planks of the door had rendered the sound difficult to define, but if he had to guess he would have pegged it as two metal objects colliding. But that didn't make much sense – the prisoner was securely chained, kept well away from the bars of her cell and otherwise denied access to anything metallic. How would she have even made such a noise?

The sound came again, an echoing chime that rang out clearly enough to be heard all the way down the hall. Victor glanced at Carver, who was likewise sitting up and frowning, and then rose from his seat.

"Maybe she's just trying to get our attention?" He offered, though his hand still went to the stout wooden club hanging from his belt. It was a sensible precaution, after all – noise meant restive prisoners, and this kind of noise meant a prisoner that had somehow managed to slip or otherwise loosen her bonds. For all that Victor was proud of his service and his strict adherence to the military's fitness standards, he was perfectly aware that in a straight fight the ex-Captain would almost certainly eat him alive. Some of the kingdom's officers might owe their position to patronage and politicking, but no one was stupid enough to try that sort of thing on the Watch Wall. Mirabelle Barca had commanded military forces on the very edge of civilisation, and that by default made her a skilled and experienced warrior. No way in hell was he going anywhere near her without a weapon.

Across from him, Carson nodded seriously and drew his own club, rising to flank him. "Well, let's see what she wants, then."

Steadying his nerves, Victor opened the door to the cell block and walked through, doing his best to stride rather than creep. He might want to move softly and look around in every direction for danger, but they'd had some real scum in these cells over the years, and the common factor in all of them was that they didn't react well to perceived weakness. Granted, most of them didn't respond favourably if you strutted around the place like an arrogant fool, but of the two he'd rather deal with derisive inmates than outright predatory ones.

Moving down the line of cells towards Barca's cell, it slowly dawned on him that something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, precisely, but there was something about the image in front of him that was simply _off_ , somehow. His instincts were screaming to him about danger, and he knew better than to ignore them. Taking a tighter grip on his club, he moved closer to the cell door and…

The _door_. Victor felt a cold rush go through his gut at the sight, as though he'd swallowed a mouthful of ice. The door to Mira's cell was closed, but it most certainly wasn't secured. The bars around the lock had bent and deformed slightly, and where the lock itself had once been there was nothing but a horribly misshapen lump of metal, still glowing faintly around the edges. The air was warm and full of the scent of ash and brimstone, two scents he had never before encountered but recognised all the same.

"Sacred Mitra…" Victor breathed, utterly aghast at what he was seeing. "Carver, man, we're in trouble."

His only response was a wet gurgle.

Victor didn't hesitate. Even before his mind had fully begun to process what was going on he was turning, passing the club into his secondary hand as he dropped into a defensive posture and began to draw steel. It was a sensible course of action, conducted with a speed and precision that would have impressed even the least charitable of his old drill masters, but it was also far too late.

Cold steel sliced across the back of his off-hand, causing the club to drop from suddenly nerveless fingers, and a hand closed around his dominant arm in a grip like iron to prevent him from drawing his sword. He turned; trying to dislodge the hold, but his assailant simply stepped closer and moved with him. For an instant he found himself face to face with Mirabelle Barca, gazing into her cold green eyes from barely an inch or two away… then one leg wrapped around his own, she leaned forwards and the two of them went crashing to the ground together in a tangle of limbs.

Something cold and sharp touched his throat, and he froze.

"Good boy." The prisoner said, having controlled the fall so as to end up virtually sitting on him. Some distant corner of his mind noted that there were worse places to be than pinned to the ground between the legs of a beautiful woman, but it was rather thoroughly drowned out by those parts of him that were concerned with the dagger she had pressed against his jugular.

 _A dagger? Where did she get a dagger? And clothes, a full set… she must have had help, this is too well planned…_

"Now then, I have some questions." The noblewoman continued, her voice perfectly calm and controlled despite the frantic struggle just a moment before. "If you answer them, completely and honestly, I will let you live. If not, you will join your friend back there. I think that's perfectly fair, don't you?"

Victor couldn't quite stifle a terrified moan at those words. He couldn't see Carver from where he laid, his captor's body blocking any line of sight back down the corridor, but he knew for a fact that the old soldier wouldn't be so silent if he was still breathing. The thought should have filled him with righteous anger, but with a knife to his throat and the angle rendering him unable to draw his weapons he couldn't muster up anything more than an icy cold feeling of helpless terror.

A slight frown creased his captor's forehead, and the pressure she was exerting on the knife increased noticeably, skin slowly giving way beneath the razor edge. "I'm waiting."

"Yes! Yes, perfectly fair!" Victor choked out, desperately trying not to move and risk slicing himself open on the knife. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know! Oh, Mitra please, don't hurt me…"

A sense of disgust and self-loathing began to boil in his gut as the cowardice overwhelmed him, but at that moment he couldn't bring himself to care. Honour, duty, courage… none of those seemed to matter very much in the face of the very real threat to his life and limb. He'd heard that you didn't really know what you were capable of until put to the test, but he'd always assumed he was better than _this_...

Atop him, his captor smiled slightly, a cold expression without any shred of actual amusement or warmth. "I wouldn't try invoking Mitra if I were you." She said conversationally. "I'm not feeling too fond of him right now, and all things considered making me angry is not an intelligent course of action."

Trembling in fear and shock, Victor stared up at her, trying to decide how he could respond that wouldn't end with him drowning in his own blood. Then his eyes landed on the necklace hanging from her neck, the small icon swinging back and forth slightly in the air before his face. The inverted silver pentagram...

 _Oh sacred Mitra, she's a devil-worshipper. Is that how she got out of her cell? Damn it, we weren't prepared for a spell-caster, but none of the files suggested anything of the sort..._

Mirabelle followed the direction of his gaze and chuckled darkly. "Pretty little thing, isn't it?" She said easily, scooping the pendent up with her free hand and tucking it away inside her shirt. "Not something you should be concerned with right now, though. Instead... tell me, how many guards are on duty right now, and where can I find them?"

A slight increase in pressure on the knife at his throat was ample warning of what would happen if he didn't answer. Gripped in fear beyond anything he'd ever felt before, Victor wept, and told her everything he knew.

-/-

The guard was being both completely obedient and perfectly cooperative, and that was something of a problem.

Mirabelle was, for all her confidence and hard-one skills, well aware that the odds were currently stacked heavily against her. The guards at Branderscar might have allowed themselves to become weak and easily distracted over the years, but they were still trained soldiers. They had arms and armour, the advantage of numbers and the skills to make the most of both. If she was going to overcome all of those advantages and escape, she would need to be smart, fast and ruthless. And part of that meant not leaving any of her captors lying around where they could potentially sneak off and summon reinforcements or otherwise return to threaten her again. Which in turn meant that the sobbing man currently pinned to the ground between her thighs needed to die.

Unfortunately, she'd promised to spare his life if he cooperated. A foolish promise, made in haste to help guarantee that he wouldn't try to resist or call for help, but a promise none the less. And if there was one thing her tutors had taught her, one inviolable belief her upbringing her instilled in her heart, it was that you did not go back on your word. Well, not lightly, at least. Certainly not for anything as petty as simple convenience. True, it could be said that if she broke her promise now and killed the guard no one else would ever know, but that wasn't the point. Her word was sacrosanct; keeping her promises a matter of honour, not simply a cold consideration based on how others might perceive her actions.

Well, so be it then. Sticking to her principles here might make things more difficult in the long run, but that was just the price she would have to pay. Hopefully, the information she'd managed to extract here would be enough to make up for it in any case, for the young soldier had been willing to spill a great deal of useful intelligence for even the chance of postponing his demise. The number of guards, their patrol routes, the location of various points of interest around the prison, the weeks current password that would get her past the gate, even the fact that most of the soldiers here would likely be bored and distracted if not outright absent from their posts altogether in favour of joining an illicit gambling session in the gatehouse. It was he sort of report that would have sent her into an apocalyptic rage had she still served the crown of Talingarde as one of its officers, but as it was everything about the shamefully lax garrison was simply another point in her favour.

Still, the young soldier was fast running out of useful information to divulge, judging by his stammering and the increasing length of the pauses between each factoid. If she kept pressing him for more he'd soon be forced to start making things up in order to satisfy her, which would be less than ideal when she found herself needing to depend on that information to survive. It was time to bring this improvised interrogation to an end.

"Well, you've been very helpful." She said sweetly, removing the knife from the young man's throat and allowing him to breathe easily once again. "Thank you. As a reward, you get to live."

With that she spun the dagger around in her hand and brought it sweeping across, smashing the pommel of the weapon into his face with a vicious speed. There was a dull cracking noise and the soldier went still, blood already starting to leak from the side of his head and stain his hair. A quick check confirmed that he was unconscious but still breathing, and then Mira clambered back to her feet once more. The rags that she'd been forced to wear upon her arrival looked reasonably sturdy, so with quick and economical motions she tore them into strips and bound her unwilling assistant hand and foot. After a moment's thought she stuffed the remainder into his mouth as an improvised gag, being careful not to obstruct his airways - choking him to death after going to all this trouble to leave him alive would not be ideal.

There wasn't much point trying to hide the bodies. Confronted with two guards coming to investigate the noises she was making and aware that she wouldn't be able to handle them both, she'd been forced to take the older man down as quickly as possible in order to maintain the advantage of surprise. A slashed throat certainly ended the threat he could pose swiftly, but the sheer quantity of blood a severed artery could produce was nothing short of astounding. Even if the bodies themselves were removed from this corridor the stench of copper and the telltale stains upon the stone floor would reveal what had happened to anyone else that wandered by.

Still, that didn't mean she was going to leave them entirely untouched. Crouching by the first corpse, Mira first studied the man's build, sizing him up and judging relative measurements with the ease of long practice. Who would have thought that all those fashion lessons back in her teenage years would have actually produced a useful skill? After a moment she nodded, satisfied that the two of them were at least reasonably similar in build, and began to strip the corpse of anything useful. The chain shirt would need adjusting if it was ever going to be a comfortable fit, but that wouldn't stop it protecting her vulnerable flesh from attacks, while the longsword belted at his waist was a weapon far more suited to her preferences than the slender daggers she'd been provided with. There was even a ring full of keys, each carefully labelled with a small piece of paper that indicated what they opened, which she attached to her own belt with some satisfaction.

Outside, the skies had finally made good on the threats they had been making for the past few hours, and now the howling wind had been joined by the endless hiss of heavy rain. That was good - nothing like a downpour to help conceal your movements, and she could not afford to be easily seen tonight. Moving swiftly, she headed along the corridor between the empty and abandoned cells to enter the small guard room at the end. The staircase in the corner would lead her down to the ground floor of the keep and from there out into the courtyard, but that was not really a viable option. Not only would it be guarded, the route would take her straight past the main barracks on the ground floor, which could have any number of off-duty soldiers in it to serve as reinforcements should one of their colleagues sound an alarm.

Instead, she turned her attention to the fireplace. She'd seen it when the guards brought her to her meeting with Tiadora, and much as she had hoped that brief glimpse had turned out to be reasonably accurate. The chimney at the back of the fireplace ran the whole height of the castle, connecting to the main kitchens on the floor below and as a result was almost comically oversized. So long as she was both patient and careful, climbing down to the ground floor shouldn't be too much of a problem, and from what the young soldier had said the kitchens had a side door that led out into the courtyard. And from there... well, one step at a time.

Moving as slowly and silently as she could, Mira lowered herself into the chimney and began to climb.

-/-

Outside the window, the rain hammered down. Every now and then a rumble of thunder would wrack the sky, loud enough to send the glass rattling in the windows and send any sane man running for cover.

Safely ensconced in his tower, Mathias Richter glanced over at the nearest window, shook his head and turned his attention back to the book in his hands. It was one of his latest purchases, a thoroughly unoriginal work by some author in the Heartlands whose name he couldn't be bothered to remember. Just about every element of the story was derived from other, better works and crammed together with no real appreciation for classical plot progression or meaningful character development, and he absolutely loved it.

The old man chuckled to himself at the thought. Oh, how his contemporaries would sneer at him if they were to ever find out about his reading preferences. They were all well bred and educated men, senior members in some of the richest and most influential families in all of Talingarde, and absolutely none of them had bothered to remove the gold-plated sticks from their collective arse in over a decade. Most of them preferred to read books written in Celestial and filled with enough self-absorbed philosophical musing to choke a horse, apparently under the impression that this was a mark of a superior mind. Mathias, by contrast, was firmly of the opinion that wealth and high station meant absolutely nothing if you couldn't have some fun once in a while.

Pursing his lips, he turned the page and continued reading. This work was a fine example of his personal philosophy, because for all its narrative flaws and unoriginal story it was at least fun to read. It was a marvelous tale about the adventures of a young and improbably well-endowed half-elven lass, with a knack for getting into mortal danger every other day as she traveled across the world, fighting terrible beasts and saving grateful innocents from horrific fates. A stirring tale of heroism and valour to match anything you might find in an inspirational sermon, but did it grace the shelves of any of the nation's great libraries or have a place in the private collections of any prominent noble? Of course not, because absolutely none of them could ever bring themselves to take half a step back and relax for five minutes.

Take his nephew, for example. Young Gaius was the very picture of what was wrong with the world today, a man blessed with good looks and a keen mind that had promptly squandered both on a life of petty political games. It was Gaius that had arranged for him to inherit the position of Warden at Branderscar Prison, knowing that it would enhance the reputation of House Richter to have one of their members in such an important and prestigious position. Did the fact that Mathias was an elderly scholar without the slightest idea of how to run a prison matter? No, of course not, that was what [i]underlings[/i] were for.

Not that Mathias would ever call Sergeant Blackerley an underling, of course. He'd brought the man in for a private chat two days after getting the position, confessed that his appointment was basically entirely driven by political concerns, and generally agreed to stay out of the way and leave the management of the prison to someone who knew what they were doing. So far, everything that he'd seen merely confirmed the decision as the correct one. For close to a year now the prison had kept ticking along with Blackerley at the helm, and in all that time they'd never had a single problem; the prisoners were obedient, the soldiers professional and the responsibilities laid on the position of Warden kept to an absolute minimum. Just the way he liked it.

On his perch nearby, Soren ruffled his feathers and hooted softly, gazing out into the stormy night with golden eyes. Frowning, Mathias set his book aside and stood up, crossing to the window and peering out into the darkness. His familiar had been at his side for far too many years by this point for him to comfortably ignore a potential warning, or at least a hint of serious events unfolding somewhere within the owl's keen gaze. Indeed, even as he watched the door to the kitchens opened and a hooded figure hurried out into the rain, crossing the courtyard towards the base of his tower with hurried steps. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the grounds, highlighting the gleaming rings of chain-mail on the stranger's torso. One of the guards, then, it had to be, but why would any of them be coming to bother him this late at night?

Perhaps there was a problem with their prisoner. Mathias could not help but frown at the thought. In truth, the fact that there was a scion of the House of Barca confined within his walls made him feel distinctly uneasy. The Barcans were an old and powerful noble family, one that had actually managed to survive being removed from power with most of their resources intact and had only expanded since then. The fact that one of their most decorated members was due to be executed in only a few days was exactly the sort of thing that would stir up the kind of political storms that he so thoroughly detested, to say nothing of the possible consequences for the House of Richter as a whole and him personally. Mathias was uncomfortably aware that he didn't really have a great many friends among those of real influence in the kingdom, his arcane studies and bookish demeanor serving to distance him from those who would otherwise be his peers. If the Barcans decided to exact a little vengeance on him for the death of their scion, there wouldn't be much he could do other than grit his teeth and bear it.

Not that he was going to let personal consequences dissuade him from doing his duty, of course. He might not have particularly desired this commission and he was well aware that he wasn't exactly good at it, but it had been entrusted to him by the word of the King, and that was a sacred charge Mathias was quite unwilling to set aside, especially for something as petty as mere personal convenience. He'd never broken his word or given in to personal weakness before, and by this point he was sufficiently old and stubborn enough that he would rather die than change his ways.

In the courtyard below the hooded guard vanished from sight as he reached the base of the tower, and not even a minute later there came a firm and insistent knock upon the door to the Warden's personal chambers. Mathias closed his eyes briefly and let out a sigh. So much for his faint hope that this didn't need to involve him, then.

"What is it?" He called out, aware that his voice sounded more than a little peevish. Well, he had a right to some irritation, seeing as apparently the developing situation was going to drag him out of his lovely warm tower and into the windswept night.

"Warden Richter, sir." The guard replied from the far side of the door, any distinguishing elements to his voice muffled by the thick wood and the raging storm outside. "I'm afraid you'll need to see this. There's a problem with the prisoner."

Muttering a curse, Richter strode over to the door, already running through the list of available spells in his mind. He'd invoked the initial rituals for several of his more utility-focused works earlier in the day as part of his habitual morning routine, committing the final segments to memory with the aid of the great mental discipline he'd developed over the years. Most of them should still be viable, the lingering magic still there to be called upon for several more hours before they inevitably started to unravel, but none of them were particularly suited towards investigation. He probably wouldn't need the combat spells either, given that the alarms hadn't be raised, but he had to admit he felt a bit better have them there to call upon if he absolutely needed to.

"What's the situation, soldier?" He asked, pulling open the door with a brusque motion. "Give me a full report..."

He was rather abruptly interrupted at that point by a sudden impact and a feeling of icy cold water in his gut as a long length of razor-sharp steel entered his torso just below the rib cage and punched out of his back a moment later. He looked down at the sword for a moment, eyes wide in a total lack of incomprehension, then slowly dragged his gaze back up to the one holding it.

"She's escaped." Mirabelle Barca said simply, her dark hair beaded with droplets of rainwater and her cold green eyes studying him with a detached interest.

Desperately, Mathias tried to draw breath to speak, to move his hand in one of the arcane gestures necessary to unleash his power, but the cold pain of the steel in his guts made focusing on anything else impossible. He could only twitch and cough weakly as the fallen knight pushed him back into the room and forcibly removed the blade with a harsh tug. The cold sensation began to spread, and as his legs gave out under him he was acutely aware of the alarmingly large amount of blood beginning to stain the front of his robes.

"Nothing personal, Warden." The prisoner said with casual disdain, stepping over his recumbent body and moving into the library beyond. He clawed at her leg as she went past, but the gesture was devoid of any strength to the point where he doubted she even noticed. "I don't know you nearly well enough to actually hate you, but unfortunately you happen to have something I need."

Desperately mustering what remained of his strength, Mathias clamped one arm around his wounded midsection, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood. It had been a long time since he'd studied any anatomy, but he was grimly certain that the injury the Barcan woman had dealt him was a serious one, likely even fatal. He needed... there was a healing potion in one of the cabinets, something he'd cooked up in his latest foray into medicinal alchemy. That would stop the bleeding and repair some of the soft tissue damage, enough to see him stable at least. But it was on the other side of the room, directly past his assailant, who was even now rooting through the various documents strewn across his desk and side-tables.

"Namely, this. A map of the nearby area." Mirabelle continued, picking up one particular piece of parchment and studying it for a moment, before wrapping it up tightly and stowing it away inside her cloak. "After all, it wouldn't do me any good if I made it out of the gates only to get lost in the swamps and eaten by an oversized frog, now would it?"

With slow, agonizing motions Mathias began to drag himself along the floor towards the cabinet, leaving a trail of blood on the rich carpet and gasping with pain at every flash of cold fire from his injury. Mirabelle watched his progress for a moment, her green eyes considering and her lips pursed.

"I should probably put you out of your misery. Don't want you mustering a hunting party and coming after me with whatever spells you happen to know, after all." She mused, while the old man tried his best to ignore the way the edges of his vision were going slowly grey. "On the other hand, I've always believed that strength and willpower deserve to be rewarded. And if you can actually make it all the way over there with your guts carved up like that - I'm impressed you can even move, by the way - well, you probably deserve a chance to make up for this rather shocking failure of duty."

He could barely even hear her now over the sound of his heart thundering in his ears, a fact which he was rather grateful for. Why was she talking so much? Was this some strange brand of psychosis that demanded she explain her motivations and rationale at every conceivable opportunity?

" I'll be honest, I rather hope I never see you again, but if I do... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, good night Warden. I wish you good fortune."

Then, with the rapid _clack_ of leather boots on a stone floor, she was gone, leaving Mathias Richter alone in his library. The wound in his torso was bleeding even more heavily now, and he could taste copper on his tongue, but he was so _close_. Barely even three metres separated him from the cabinet and the potion within.

It might as well have been three miles.


	3. Act One - Signed in Blood

Chapter Three

Overhead, the storm that had raged for the last hour or more was slowly starting to fade away. The hammering rain was reduced to a light drizzle, and the ferocious tearing winds were dying back down once more. Even so, the weather was thoroughly miserable, the haze of water in the air enough to heavily reduce visibility even for those who were unfortunate or desperate enough to still be outside despite the lateness of the hour. All of which meant that when a slender and thoroughly bedraggled creature emerged from the sea and onto the shore, there was no one around to see it.

Driven by little more than spite and sheer will by this point, Mirabelle Barca forced her way through the crashing waves and staggered across the sandy beach, stumbling with every other step as her unstable footing threatened to give way entirely. It was only when she made it to the grassy hills beyond the sand that she at last allowed herself to give in to the fatigue, her legs collapsing under her and sending her crashing down onto her knees. She leaned forwards, supporting herself with her hands and sucking in deep, gasping breaths.

The swim had been long and difficult, for the coastline here was infamous for its strong tides and the sharp rocks of the numerous cliffs. The slightest misstep would have seen her dashed to pieces or just sucked under completely, but lingering too long would have been equally foolish as the icy cold waters drained away her strength until she gave in to exhaustion. Even so, it wasn't as if there had really been any other choice. She'd managed to make it through the main gates of the castle by hiding her face and giving the password in a muffled voice, but the small guard post on the shore was too well lit for such deception to have worked a second time. Besides, they had dogs, and she couldn't really afford to risk everything on sneaking past trained animals on the slim chance that they wouldn't bark at an unexpected scent. So she'd looped the rope around one of the ominous gargoyles mounted all along the bridge, lowered herself down into the seas below and swum for the shore as quickly and quietly as she could.

Groaning, she rolled over onto her back, slowly trying to control the desperate trembling in her limbs. There had been a time when she would have been able to make that swim easily, even with the added weight of her supplies to consider, but that was when she'd been in peak condition. Tonight, she'd been cold and tired, her energy sapped by days of poor food and not enough rest, to the point where she was honestly a little surprised that she'd made it at all.

Slowly, her expression brightened, the first hints of a smile starting to pull at her lips. Propping herself up on her elbows allowed her to look back down the coastline and see the ominous looming form of Castle Branderscar in the distance. The most feared and well defended prison in the country, at least according to her reputation, and she had escaped. Not without help, true, and not particularly easily, but none of that really mattered. In the minds of just about everyone in Talingarde, once she had passed through those gates her fate was essentially sealed, but she had proven them wrong tonight. She was free.

Oh, they'd raise an alarm of course - might even have done so already, if someone had stumbled across her empty cell or the bodies that she had left in her wake. But that didn't matter. The garrison at Branderscar was far too small to mount an effective search of the nearby area, especially given how much of it was covered in rolling marshland, and by going through the sea rather than the guard post she'd avoided leaving any tracks or scent trails for their hounds to follow. Reinforcements would arrive before too long and a more comprehensive pursuit would be mounted, but right now she held the advantage, and it was one she intended to make full use of.

Chuckling, Mira hauled herself back into a seated position and unslung the crude pack she was carrying from her shoulders. Inside, wrapped in one of the oil-coated capes to protect them from the cruel touch of the sea, were her supplies. A quick check confirmed that they'd survived the journey reasonably intact, and that the map she'd taken from the Warden's office was still reasonably legible. The food purloined from the kitchens still seemed edible as well, and she immediately set about devouring the bread and salted meat in hopes of restoring some of her energy, for the journey ahead was likely to take several hours and she did not want to find herself passing out from hunger halfway. Between bites, she removed individual articles of clothing and wrung them dry as best she could, for even damp clothes were better than a collection of utterly soaked rags, especially when you were going to be walking through the night and couldn't rely on the sun to help you dry off.

That done, she double-checked the map, estimating her current position with the aid of the coastline and the distinctive landmark of Branderscar itself. Getting to the Old Moor Road from here did not look as though it would be difficult, even taking the care to go around the small hamlet of Varyston rather than risking witnesses. Even accounting for a reduced walking speed due to the cold and lingering fatigue, she should be able to reach her destination by dawn at the latest.

The real question was, did she want to go? Mira took another bite of her bread and considered that question for a moment. She didn't know a great deal about Tiadora and her sponsor, other than they were apparently connected with Asmodeus in some fashion and were willing to risk the ire of the King in breaking her out of jail. Going to the manor as they had requested would essentially be delivering herself into their hands, for she was under no illusions that they would allow her to leave again if she arrived and then refused to go along with whatever scheme they were evidently planning. Her instincts were telling her to find some way of approaching the meeting from a position of strength, or at least making sure that she had some kind of fallback option in place before walking into the lion's den. Perhaps making contact with her family, and finding a way to pass a warning onto the King and his forces if she then went to meet them and did not return?

Sighing, the noblewoman shook her head and dismissed the notion. Right now her family was unconnected with her escape except possibly by vague implication, and so long as that remained the case they were reasonably safe. For all his faults, King Markaddian V was not the sort to punish the innocent for something their associates had done, not without any evidence linking the two of them. So long as the House of Barca remained uninvolved in this, they would be able to rejoice in her salvation by proxy while still maintaining their prominent position in society, even if they wondered at who it was who had intervened on their behalf. And in the meantime, regardless of their motives or allegiance Tiadora and her people _had_ rescued her. That created a certain obligation, one she was honour-bound to repay, and if the best way to do so was to attend this meeting that was simply what she would have to do.

Besides, there was more than simple earthly politics to consider here. A pensive expression on her face, Mira looked down at the small talisman in her hand, remembering the signs of divine favour she had received in the jail cell. It seemed that she had gained some form of patronage from the Pit when she had uttered that fervent prayer, and the thought of spurning that now by turning aside instead of trying to link up with fellow agents of Hell seemed... well, unwise was putting it mildly.

Decided, Mira tucked the icon back under her shirt and rose to her feet once more, picking up the satchel and slinging it onto her back. She had quite some distance to travel and an uncertain length of time in which to do it. Best to get started.

A smile on her face, she turned and strode off into the darkness, a questing knight in search of new purpose.

-/-

The manor house was precisely that; a stately country home located far away from any major population centres, surrounded by a perimeter wall covered in wrought iron spikes to help ensure true privacy. In form it was unexceptional, merely another example of the kinds of property that most families of any wealth or station generally aimed to possess, but it was in the right area and there was indeed a lantern burning in an upper floor window. That meant that most of what could be seen from the outside was probably just an innocent facade to deter investigators, but as for what the true nature of the estate was... well, that was question with only one real solution.

Mira approached cautiously, opting to walk on the soft grass of the elegantly sculpted lawns rather than the rough gravel pathways. It was a choice that would probably send any self-respecting groundskeeper into fits of rage, but right now she cared far more about avoiding any chance of excess noise. In theory such precautions were unnecessary when approaching the home of someone who seemed to be an ally, but that didn't stop her from treading lightly or scanning the area as she advanced, just in case. An ambush seemed rather unlikely, but she knew from harsh experience that the best ones were those that your target had no reason to expect.

Still, she'd prolonged the approach for long enough by this point, and in her professional estimation had long since passed the point where turning and running for the exit was a viable option. If skulking would gain her nothing further of any true worth, then the next step was to project an air of calm confidence and take the metaphorical plunge. With that in mind, Mira straightened up and marched across the front yard of the estate, taking a direct path for the main entrance and bracing herself as best she could for whatever might come next.

The doors opened of their own accord the moment she drew near, spilling a wave of warm light out across the ground to welcome her arrival. Determined not to betray doubt or weakness through visible hesitation, Mira simply set her shoulders and strode onwards, crossing the threshold and entering the main hall beyond.

Inside, the manor house looked much as she might have expected from the exterior - marble floors gleamed softly in the light of numerous candles, works of art hung from every wall, and in front of her a giant sweeping staircase rose towards the second level under a glittering crystal candelabra. The moment she was inside the doors swung shut behind her, once again without any sign of human assistance, closing firmly with a soft _click_ that seemed to echo all the louder in the empty space. Not allowing that to unnerve her, Mira none the less paused at the base of the staircase, glancing around in hopes of determining where she was meant to go next.

"Dearest, you made it."

The voice was smooth and polished, edged with a noble's careful pronunciation and entirely devoid of any real warmth. Mira could hardly fail to recognise it, and with a tight-lipped smile raised her gaze to the second floor of the house. There stood Tiadora, leaning against the balcony railing and regarding her from on high with sparkling emerald eyes. The blond woman had changed outfits since returning from the prison, now opting for a long white dress of purest silk that might have made her look angelic, were it not for the malicious amusement in her gaze.

"I did not keep you waiting, I trust?" Mira replied archly, tilting her head back to look up at her mysterious benefactor. Inwardly, she wondered in the setup was deliberate - veterans of courtly politics often made use of differing heights to frame interactions in a certain way, and the symbolism behind a raised dais for the throne was well known. Tiadora had placed herself on the upper floor and was not coming down, forcing Mira to look up as though at a superior, but whether that was a conscious choice was difficult to determine. Best to assume nothing for the moment, but keep the idea in mind and stay on the lookout for other such manipulation in the future.

"Indeed not. You were commendably prompt." Tiadora allowed, making a show of looking Mira up and down before wrinkling her nose. "Your appearance, however, leaves something to be desired. We cannot have you meet the Master in such a bedraggled state. Slaves!"

Mira noted the choice of word; 'master' where before it had been 'patron'. Another choice that might mean everything or nothing depending on the reality of the situation behind it, another clue to take note of and file away for future reference. Still, she said nothing, instead opting to glance around at the numerous doors opening at Tiadora's command. Through them scurried a veritable profusion of men and women in formal servant's livery, each keeping their heads bowed and their eyes averted from the imperious woman on the balcony.

"This is an honoured guest." Tiadora continued once they had assembled. "You are to obey her commands as though they were my own. Feed her, bathe her and make her presentable for a meeting with the Master. _Quickly_."

Something in that last word sounded very much like a threat, and certainly that was how the slaves took it, flinching in suppressed fear before nodding frantically in agreement. Tiadora seemed satisfied with the show of obedience, moving away from the balcony and returning to whatever it was she had been doing without another word. Mira watched her go with a pensive expression on her face, before allowing herself to be ushered off down the hallway by the gathered staff, several of whom had already taken off at a run to attend to other arrangements elsewhere.

Were they truly slaves? It said a lot about Tiadora and her Master if so, for slavery was one of the vilest crimes recognized under Talirean law, carrying with it an automatic death sentence for even the most peripheral of involvements. There might occasionally be a decadent noble or two that employed household staff under ludicrously exploitative 'contracts', but by and large not even the most depraved or rebellious member of the aristocracy actually indulged in outright enslavement of their fellow man. It was one of the relatively few laws instituted by the House of Darius that Mira whole-heartedly supported, for reasons both pragmatic and ideological, and the loss of power over her own fate that imprisonment had brought with it had hardly endeared the concept to her.

The staff here did not _look_ like slaves, though she was prepared to admit that she had only the vaguest stereotypes of foreign lands to draw upon when making such a judgement. They were well dressed, bore no sign of malnutrition or ill-treatment upon their flesh, and the smiles and polite deference they showed her seemed genuine enough. It seemed tactless to ask them directly, somehow, but the possibility was not one that she could lightly set aside either. If Tiadora and her Master truly trafficked in slaves, then she wanted no part in their enterprise, not even in the knowledge that refusal meant death. In truth she was a little surprised at the strength of her own aversion to the idea, having never considered herself an especially idealistic sort before, but it seemed that even now there were still some lines she was simply not willing to cross.

Having so resolved herself, Mira kept quiet and allowed the staff to lead her through the halls and passageways of the manor house without complaint. Even surrounded by reminders of the dubious ethics of her situation, she could not deny that the prospect of a hot bath was almost sinfully tempting: one more pleasure she had thought never to feel again after she passed through the gates of Branderscar. The thought of a proper meal was equally enticing, something with more taste and nutrition than the thin gruel served to prisoners or the simple bread and meat she had stolen from the kitchens.

"If it pleases you, milady, this has been assigned as your room." One of the servants said politely, opening a door that looked identical to all the others and then stepping aside with a bow. Mira raised an eyebrow, then walked inside, looking around with some curiousity. If her hosts had gone to the trouble of preparing a room for her before she had even escaped then they must not have held much in the way of doubts about her capabilities. That was reassuring in some ways, for one did not lay out dedicated chambers for a hostage or minion, but in others it was moderately unsettling. Had they been so confident that she would accept their offer, then, that they had laid plans in motion based on the assumption of her success? Was she truly so predictable and easily read?

Well, if nothing else she had to admit that the room was more than adequate. It was a bedchamber that reminded her of nothing quite so much as her old room back in the Barcan ancestral lands, a lavishly appointed suite fit for a member of the old aristocracy. The floor was covered by a thick carpet, the walls decorated with tasteful works of art, and the furniture all hand-carved from rich Heartland wood. All that was missing was the iconography, but that was to be expected - no one but the House of Barca would be likely to favour the griffons and eagles of their heraldry to a similar extent.

The ornate bed set against the far wall almost seemed to beckon to her, promising a restful night's sleep and relied from aching muscles and a weary mind, but right now it took a distinctly second place to the large metal tub awaiting her in the centre of the chamber. The water within steamed softly, and the air was filled with the scent of soap and fresh perfumes. The shiver of anticipatory pleasure that went through her at the sight was almost enough to cause her legs to collapse, but with some difficulty she tore her gaze away from it long enough to address the servants waiting by the door.

"It will do nicely, thank you." She said with a genuine smile. "Now, I am going to take a bath. Please prepare me some fresh clothes for when I am finished, and a hot meal. Otherwise, solitude would be appreciated."

It was not a request, and to their credit the staff did not take it as such.

-/-

It was amazing, just how much of a difference something as simple as a wash and a good meal could make. Scarcely an hour after walking through the door to the manor, and already Mira felt like a completely different person. A good night's sleep would help as well, but making her mysterious host wait that long before consenting to the meeting seemed both rude and somewhat unwise. So, refreshed and rejuvenated, she summoned one of the servants and had him lead her to his Master. With an obedient nod, he had taken her to the second floor of the manor, knocked once on one of the doors there, then opened it and stood aside.

The room beyond was evidently some kind of private study, the walls lined with bookshelves and candle-holders. In the centre rested a large mahogany desk, strewn with paperwork and surrounded by comfortable looking chairs, and sitting on the far side of it was the man she had come to meet. He was tall and well-built, broad shoulders hinting at an impressive physique hidden beneath fine robes of scarlet and black, and despite his seated position he seemed to almost radiate a sense of energy and motion held carefully in check. His head was completely bald, save for a neatly trimmed beard that might have been naturally black or dyed to hide the greying hairs of old age, but despite that he was still undeniably handsome.

He glanced up as the door opened, and the moment he saw her standing there his mouth curved into a warm smile. "Ah, you must be the Lady Barca." He said, his voice a strong baritone that rang with conviction and strength. "I have been looking forwards to meeting you for some time. Please, sit. I hope you have been made comfortable?"

Nodding, Mira crossed the room and settled into one of the chairs in front of the desk, carefully tucking her sword back so that it did not catch on the floor when she sat down. The staff had given her a virtual wardrobe of options to choose from when selecting her new outfit, but in the end she had gone for something simple and comfortable - hide trousers made for riding, a white silk shirt that hung just a little loosely on her slender frame, and a belt to keep her weapons on. If the fact that she had brought steel to the meeting alarmed or discomforted her host, he did not show it.

"Indeed. Your 'slaves' have been quite attentive." She said with a deliberately casual air, watching him closely for a reaction. Best to get the potential deal-breaker out of the way first of all.

"Slaves?" Her host looked momentarily puzzled, then the light of understanding dawned in his eye and he sighed in resignation. "Ah, my apologies. Tiadora is many things, but she is no diplomat, and her caustic tongue has often given people the wrong impression. Rest assured that all of the staff here entered my service willingly and are well paid for their work. Good help is hard to find, especially ones with an understanding of proper discretion. My majordomo is not from Talingarde, and while she has put commendable effort into learning our language, it does not come naturally to her. I will make sure to clarify the distinction between the words to her after we are done here."

Mira nodded slowly, considering the explanation. It was true 'Tiadora' was not a Talirean name, but the blond woman had spoken so clearly before that she had never considered the possibility of foreign birth. Her own mistake, really, to assume that a foreigner would be poorly spoken, and not one that she would want to make in the future.

"No apologies are necessary." She said at last, relieved not to have to confront the possibility of dealing with a slaver in any kind of civil fashion. "It was a simple misunderstanding, resolved and now best forgotten."

"Indeed." The bald man inclined his head. "Thank you for your understanding. Not many would show the kind of discretion you have by bringing it up with me, rather than confronting Tiadora directly."

Mira shrugged. "She rescued me from Branderscar on your orders, or at least gave me the tools to do so on my own. That is a debt not soon forgotten, and one that earns the benefit of the doubt in cases such as this. Though I confess your motives for providing such assistance remain a mystery to me."

Her host smiled at that. "Could I not be driven by simple altruism?" Her expression must have conveyed her opinion of such an idea better than words ever could, for he merely chuckled before pressing on. "Indeed not. Let us start, then, with an introduction. My name is Adrastus Thorn, and I am the High Priest of Asmodeus in Talingarde."

The connection with the Devil-God was hardly a surprise, given what she had seen already, but Mira still blinked in surprise to hear the words said so casually. "Forgive me, but the title of 'High Priest' implies the existence of a Church, does it not? I had thought all worship of Asmodeus purged from the isle."

Thorn nodded agreeably. "You are correct on both counts. In truth the title is more of a ceremonial rank than one with any actual practical value, though it was not always so. Once, the Prince of Nessus was worshipped throughout Talingarde, his dictates obeyed and his wisdom honoured - most notably by your ancestors, when last they sat upon the throne. Even in the early days of the Darian regime, the people knew better than to spurn the wisdom of Hell. Now though, they cling only to the light of Mitra, and allow it to blind them to any truth that does not come to them from the steps of the pulpit."

Mira could only nod at this, for it was a truth she was well acquainted with. In theory, the worship of gods other than Mitra was not illegal in Talingarde, rival faiths permitted if not privileged to the same degree. In reality, the power and influence of the Mitran church extended far beyond the spiritual realms, far enough to make blasphemy against the Sun God a serious crime in its own right. Over the years, the combination of religious and political authority had grown to crush out any forms of competition, to the point where an outsider could be forgiven for thinking Mitra the sole deity permitted reverence in the nation.

The official histories made little mention of those faiths that had held sway before the House of Darius rose to power, but the connection between the House of Barca and the Temple of Asmodeus was carefully preserved even if the specifics were omitted. In truth, that was something of a political master-stroke, one which she begrudgingly admired the Darian Kings for conceiving of. Barcan pride would never permit them to forsake their origins or the deeds of their ancestors, but the more tightly they clung to their glorious past the more their name was tarnished in 'respectable' circles and the further from their ambitions they were forced.

"This blasphemous ignorance is an affront I can no longer tolerate." Thorn continued, his voice calm and level but carrying with it an undertone of religious conviction. "I am going to return the worship of Asmodeus to its rightful place in this land and show the people the truths that their weakness would have them deny. Any that attempt to impede me in this holy quest will be cast broken into the fiery hell they so fear, for they will have no place in the new world to come."

"An ambitious goal." Mira said carefully, at something of a loss for any other way to describe it. She had thought some of her relatives aimed high, dreaming of recouping lost glories and returning their family to the throne they had once held, but nothing like this. What Thorn proposed was nothing less than a complete restructuring of the very fabric of Talirean society, an attempt that would be remembered in the histories for years to come even if it failed. And if by some dark miracle he should succeed... "One that will face considerable opposition. The faithful of Mitra will never permit their adversary to return to prominence, and they hold a surfeit of influence just about anywhere you care to name. By walking this path, you would make an enemy of all of Talingarde."

"Asmodeus is the Lord of Ambition." Thorn replied with a confident smile. "Those who content themselves with modest goals and petty desires will never earn his attention, but for those who dream of greatness and have the will and cunning to make their visions a reality he is a most benevolent patron. This aim is one that pleases him, both in nature and in scope, and so I have found myself granted strength beyond that of other men, strength with which to bend the world to my desires. I can call down pillars of hellfire with a gesture, sunder mountains with a word and wrest the dead themselves from the bonds of eternal rest, and even this is but a taste of the rewards that will follow once I succeed. You say I shall make an enemy of all Talingarde? Then let it be so. I shall burn this country to the ground for its sins, and in the ashes raise a new order that shall eclipse the stars themselves with its glory."

He paused there for a moment, as though to allow time for the magnitude of his vision to truly sink in, before continuing. "Even so, I am not so foolish as to believe that such a task can be accomplished on my own. Were the Darian regime so weak it could have never survived as long as it has. I need allies, men and women of strength and resourcefulness to help me see this mission through to its conclusion. Which brings me to you."

Mira shifted in her chair, left reeling despite her best intentions by the sheer strength of the ambition and faith that seemed to radiate like fire from the man sitting across from her. Distantly, she understood what it was that Thorn was doing, recognized the way that he was playing to her ego and sense of thwarted ambition to bring her around to his side. Knowing that, however, did nothing to stop her heart from racing or her breath from quickening at the visions his words lit within her mind. A world brought to heel, a hated regime cast down into the dirt and a new order raised in its place, a chance for glorious infamy unequalled by anything else the world had to offer. It was a tempting prospect indeed, exactly the sort of thing she would expect to hear from a priest of Asmodeus, a gospel delivered with the kind of dark charisma that characterized the villain in just about every Talirean morality play published in the last fifty years or more.

Of course, that was not the only thing popular understanding would have her expect from a Chosen of Hell, and that more than anything else was what allowed her to retain control. She would not allow herself to be swept away by the force of the Cardinal's personality, caught up in a web of pretty words and minor indulgences until she could not even see the strings that bound her. She would, it short, be an ally if anything, never a minion. Her pride would allow nothing less.

"Is this where the famed silver tongue of the devil enters play?" She asked archly, doing her best to hide the true eagerness she felt. "I am flattered of course, and grateful for your assistance at Branderscar, but you are asking a great deal indeed. Why should I go along with this plan of yours?"

Unexpectedly, her response only elicited a chuckle from Thorn, rather than anything more serious. The Cardinal leaned back in his chair and spread his hands, his eyes twinkling with seemingly honest mirth. "Would you have me seduce you, then? Tempt you to the side of villainy and wickedness with beautiful promises of wealth and power, or lead you on with the chance of vengeance against all who had ever slighted you? I could do so, certainly, for you stand to gain from this in all those ways and more, but I would not have thought it necessary."

He smiled, and Mira found herself smiling back, well aware of where this was going and what her answer was most likely going to be. His choice of words did prompt a moment of reflection, for she was quite sure that being seduced by such a handsome and confident man would be a thoroughly enjoyable experience... but no, if he was to be her superior then certain boundaries would need to be maintained. A shame, but even so she could enjoy this process in other ways. "Indulge me."

"But of course." Thorn responded with a nod, evidently enjoying himself in turn. "Let us start with the flattery and praise, shall we? You represent a rare and valuable agent as things stand, with the potential for much more given time and training. Your skill in battle is impressive, while your knowledge and experience in command make you one of the better options for orchestrating any military endeavor I might choose to undertake. You know your way around a court and have personal knowledge of a great many people in positions of power throughout Talingarde, both personally and through reputation, and thanks to your familial bonds you maintain connections with a potential power base of significant size. You are in short a valuable ally, one worth courting as far more than just another minion and one I would be a fool to overlook entirely."

With one hand, Thorn reached over into a small pouch on the corner of his desk, extracting from within a single golden piece. He held the coin up in front of him, the rich gold gleaming in the candle light.

"And what of the rewards? Well, there is wealth of course, for the Darians and the Mitrans both control vast amounts of resources that we would need to liberate and put to better use. Power, too, would be yours for the taking, as only a fool would remove the existing social structure without having someone else ready to step into the recently vacated positions of prominence throughout the land. And of course there is my personal favorite - revenge. A great many people are going to die before this is through, and many more will see everything they knew and loved crushed into the dirt under our heels. I can speak from personal experience when I tell you that there is little in this life quite so satisfying as watching your enemies, once so assured of their superiority, groveling in the dirt at your feet."

With a flick of his wrist the Cardinal dropped the coin and seized it in a grasping fist. The levity drained from his voice, and when he looked at her his eyes were filled with solemn sincerity. "Do not forget the spiritual side of this mission either. I know you have felt the power and favour of Asmodeus already, for I can see his mark upon you. It is a heady thing, to act with the direct sanction of a god, and I can teach you how to draw upon that blessing with greater depth and versatility than you can even imagine. Should you prove yourself worthy all the might and power of Hell will be yours to command, all its wealth and luxury yours for the taking."

He opened his fist once again, and the lump of half-melted and distorted metal that had once been a coin dropped onto the desk with a faint _chime_. "In the end, though, we both know how this ends. You are an intelligent woman, and that means you know how badly that mark upon your arm damns you in the sight of Talingarde as a whole. The country as it is will never accept you now, so why not join me, and build one that will? Together, we will carve our names into the very soul of this land, and build a legacy that shall last a thousand years or more. Apart... well, I will still know success, even if it takes longer than with your assistance, and you will simply fade from memory - one more outcast soldier, one more fallen noble destined for an unmarked grave and little else. It is, I think, a simple choice."

For a long moment, there was only silence, and the air hung thick with anticipation and subtle tension. Then, slowly at first but with increasing speed and volume, Mira began to laugh. It was not a scornful laugh, no expression of mockery and derision, but rather the most honest response she could offer to the situation. Thorn had rescued her from jail, spared her death under the executioners axe and given her the tools to escape the most infamous prison in all the land. He had fed and clothed her, assigned her luxurious chambers and set servants to attend to her every need, taken her in from the cold and offered shelter from the storm of vengeance howling at her heels. Now he offered her wealth and power, a chance to strike back at those that had cast her down and imprisoned her, a way to restore the fortunes of her family and burn her name into the history books for all time.

After all of that, there really wasn't much choice at all.

"I accept." She said simply, grinning with a kind of vicious satisfaction that she had only rarely felt before. "Deliver unto me what you have promised, Lord Thorn, and I shall be your loyal sword, the agent of deliverance for your allies and ruin for your enemies. Now... I believe tradition dictates some kind of signature in blood?"

Chuckling, Thorn nodded and reached into one of the draws on his desk, producing a pair of beautifully written contracts inscribed upon some kind of strange ruddy hide. He passed them to her, and a moment later placed both a quill and a small silver knife next to them. "Indeed. One of the few rites of our faith that popular culture actually tends to get correct."

Mira blinked for a moment in honest surprise - she had not _truly_ expected to sign a contract in blood - then shook off her doubts and studied the document in front of her. Her tutors had always warned her never to sign anything legally binding without firm consideration beforehand, and this particular agreement warranted rather more care than most. After all, she did not think Asmodeus would forgive a breach of terms agreed in a sacred contract, even if she tried arguing that she had not understood what she was signing.

Fortunately, the document appeared to be relatively straight-forward. It laid out the terms of her service and the obligations that would bind her and Cardinal Thorn together, ones that favoured him but not to an excessive degree. More importantly, it established her as a sworn servant of Asmodeus above all other gods... but she had already sworn as much in her cell, so there was little to fear from making it all official. There did not see to be anything else of serious note contained within, though she spent a brief moment wishing for some proper legal council to help guarantee that she was not making a serious mistake here. Still, that was a futile wish given the situation, so after a moment she put it from her mind.

 _Hesitation in the face of what must be done is weakness. Weakness means death._

With that thought in mind, she picked up the small silver knife, bringing the sharpened edge around to touch the palm of her other hand. A quick cut brought with it a flash of pain, but she stifled the pained hiss and concentrated on not spilling any of the gently welling blood across the table.

Then, without pause or elaborate ceremony, she dipped the quill into her own blood and signed the contract.


	4. Act Two - The Lost Squire

Act Two - The Cruel Tutelage of Master Thorn

Chapter Four

The heavy wooden door creaked loudly as it opened, the sound echoing through the twisting warren of stone passageways and chambers all around her. Mira grimaced at the sound, well aware that it had likely signalled her location to any number of potent and cunning foes, but equally aware that there had not been much choice in the matter. It wasn't as if hiding timidly in a corner and hoping that nothing found her would actually help, after all.

It had barely been a day since she had first signed the contract and pledged herself in service to Adrastus Thorn, and already the tests had begun. The Cardinal, it seemed, was eager to find out just what his newest agent was capable of, and so he had given her but a single day's rest before ordering her into the seemingly endless network of caverns and passageways that stretched out underneath the manor house. When and how he'd carved them from the bedrock was still something of a mystery, for surely nothing as elaborate as this could have come about through natural processes alone, but that was a distinctly secondary concern next to surviving the ordeal that they represented.

True, most of the tests and traps she had encountered thus far were less than lethal, but not all of them, and they had been steadily increasing in difficulty and risk the further she went. Already she had skirted pit traps filled with spikes, dodged javelins flung out from behind fake doors and escaped the frozen embrace of some kind of magical fungus that sought to drain all heat and life from its surroundings. As for what had been hiding under the floorboards in the room filled with magical darkness, she still had no idea, but it had slithered through holes little wider than her wrist and whispered strange words in her ear before she had managed to break the globe that produced the shadows, and that was quite enough information for her.

Her mission, such as it was, was relatively simple. Somewhere within this cramped and winding labyrinth could be found an amulet of silver and sapphire, probably in the possession of some hideous monster judging by the way the rest of the trials were going. She was to retrieve it and bring it back to Thorn before the day had ended, while he observed her progress through means he had declined to share and formed a more complete assessment of her capabilities.

It was a goal that she understood and agreed with, following methods that sounded logical enough when taken in the abstract, but conducted in a way that entirely blind-sided her through sheer novelty, a pattern that she was beginning to suspect could be applied to a great many of Adrastus Thorn's chosen behaviours. He needed to have a comprehensive understanding of where her strengths and weaknesses lay before beginning the additional training he evidently had in mind, but where she would have put a recruit through some simple physical drills and maybe a mock spar or two, he saw fit to through his soldiers into a subterranean labyrinth full of lethal traps and watch what happened next.

All in all, Mira was slowly developing the sneaking suspicion that she had signed on with a madman. At the very least, Thorn seemed to have an entirely unconventional understanding of how to approach any given problem. Then again, perhaps that was also a strength - certainly all of the reasonable methods for toppling the House of Darius and the Church of Mitra had been tried at one point or another and proven woefully insufficient. Whether the Cardinal was an innovative genius or simply a charismatic lunatic, then, could only really be determined by whether his plans ended up working, something she could not yet say with any certainty.

An excellent example of this strange methodology would be the signs that he had apparently placed absolutely everywhere throughout the maze. They were simple wooden things, little more than surfaces for a series of painted words to be displayed, each bearing a pithy saying or aphorism that held some relevance to the task at hand. Granted, some of them only became obviously relevant in certain situations - she still felt both amused and slightly bitter about the sign that warned of deception in the same room as a false door and a spiked pit trap - but they offered guidance and advice of a sort, albeit one phrased in a more sinister fashion than any she'd heard in the past. The message scribed on the wall next to her at the moment was a fine example.

Cruelty is a tool, not a pastime. Be merciless to thy enemies, but reward those who serve you well.

She glanced at the message once more, making sure that she wasn't missing anything, and then turned her attention back to the room in front of her with a raised eyebrow. On one level the intention behind the remark was obvious, for there could be little doubt that this was in fact a torture chamber, filled as it was with all manner of strange and menacing looking contraptions and lit only by flickering torches along the walls. On the other hand, quite what she was meant to do next remained rather elusive, for there was no-one else here. Was she meant to obtain a victim elsewhere and then drag them back here for interrogation? Somehow, Mira did not think so. All of the tests so far had been reasonably self-contained, clues and solutions all held within the same room as the danger they were meant to bypass, and while that certainly didn't make a break in the pattern impossible it still seemed unlikely.

So, if she proceeded on the assumption that this test bore at least that much similarity to those which had come before, that meant that there was still some element of it that she was missing; Something hidden or otherwise concealed, a missing piece to the puzzle. A thoughtful frown on her face, Mira moved further into the chamber, eyes sweeping from left to right as she assessed the possibilities. Her armour clinked slightly as she moved, the chain shirt she had liberated from the guards at Branderscar set aside in favour of a proper breastplate provided by one of the servants at Thorn's command. She'd always felt better in full armour than in any of the lighter and more mobile protection some of her companions had favoured, willing to accept the penalties to her manoeuvrability in return for the ability to survive strikes that would have gone straight through the lighter chain-mail. Her long years of service on the Watch Wall, where you were often restricted in your movements by the fortifications and facing foes with strength and savagery far beyond most humans had bred that preference into her. Just one legacy among many she still carried from her earlier life.

Mira paused when she reached the middle of the room, setting aside her memories as she studied her surroundings. There was something here, some small detail that her eyes had noticed but her mind had not yet managed to recognise, like a persistent itch on the very edge of her awareness. Idly, her gaze came to rest upon the flickering torches that illuminated the room, each one mounted on a different wall. They burned relatively cleanly, not producing nearly as much smoke as she might have expected... but there was still smoke, and as she studied the way it flowed through the still air of the chamber she felt a smile break out onto her face. There it was; the little clue that betrayed the secret to the whole picture. The smoke from the torches was moving in a very particular pattern, drifting towards one section of the left-hand wall despite an utter lack of any prevailing breeze that might justify such a motion.

Now that she knew where to look, the rest was easy. Part of her training and education had involved the study of various types of military fortification, which had swiftly blossomed outwards into an interest in all kinds of architecture. It was that knowledge, all but forgotten over the long years of ill-use since she took up arms, which allowed her to spot the minute flaws in the wall and discern the truth behind the carefully presented facade. Crossing the room with three brisk paces, she reached out with her free hand and jabbed at a single stone in the wall that protruded from all of the others. There was a faint rumble, and then the false wall slid aside, revealing the narrow compartment beyond.

Hiding inside was a man. A boy, really, barely more than sixteen summers if she was any judge, with wavy brown hair and watery green eyes that shone with unshed tears. He was dressed in the blue and white uniform of the Talirean military, his shirt adorned with the symbol of a golden eagle. A member of the Knights of the Alerion, then, likely a squire judging by his age and lack of battle scars. Looking him over, Mira noted two facts of real import. Firstly, his uniform was filthy, his hands covered in dirt and his hair dishevelled, all signs that indicated he had been here for some time and was unlikely to have come willingly. The second fact was that he was completely and utterly terrified, pressing himself back against the far wall as though the stones would swallow him up and offer salvation from his current situation.

Sighing, she slid the sword in her hand back into its scabbard, confident that the terrified squire posed no real threat. The message at the door was starting to make rather more sense now, if not in a way that made her feel particularly at ease. Doubtless this boy had some useful information to divulge, either obtained before his capture or else allowed to fall into his possession while he was down here, and it was up to her to get it out of him. Well, if Thorn was expecting her to leap at the chance to inflict pain and suffering on this child, simply because she had the means and the excuse, he was going to be disappointed.

"Easy there, squire." She said calmly, well aware that she couldn't really do 'sympathetic' or 'comforting' and therefore electing to not waste the effort trying. "I'm not an enemy. My name is Mirabelle Barca, of the Brotherhood of the Gryphon."

In truth, she doubted her knighthood was still valid at this point. The Brotherhood was effectively under the control of the House of Barca, having been formed in the wake of the Victor's rebellion out of the shattered remains of those knightly orders that had opposed the Darian rise to power, but even so they didn't possess nearly enough influence or autonomy to ignore a royal command. She had been stripped of all her official honours, and while the traditional Gryphons would probably still think of her as a peer in their hearts, formally she had probably been cast out in disgrace. Still, the chances of this lowly squire knowing all of that were rather slim, and given his profession and situation the sight of a Talirean knight could only be a comfort.

"Oh, thank the Light." The squire breathed, not noticing how Mira's lips thinned at the religious phrase; As though Mitra had anything to do with her being here. "I am Timeon, squire to Sir Balin of Karfield. Did my lord send you?"

Ah, now that was a name she recognised. Sir Balin was a famous witch hunter, a knight who had dedicated his life to ridding the land of evil, or at least evil spell-casters. That he would be involved here was not especially surprising, for there was little doubt that Thorn was exactly the sort of enemy that men like Balin dreamed of opposing. Had he been following the Cardinal's trail independently, or had Thorn decided to take the initiative and remove the witch hunter before he could stumble across anything really important?

"No, I'm in the area on an independent mission." She answered the squire, carefully leaving aside any mention of precisely what that mission was for the moment. "Still, I may be able to help in any case. Tell me, how did you come to be here?"

The squire nodded, evidently relieved to have found what he felt was a clear way out of the nightmare that he had stumbled into. "Sir Balin was traveling down to Varyston, in pursuit of a hedge wizard operating without official sanction, when we were attacked on the road. She was… it was…" He paused there for a moment, struggling to find words that did justice to what he had seen. "The attacker was a lone woman, with blond hair and green eyes, wearing a dress. We thought she was a lost traveller, but then she tore the head from Sir Balin's horse with her bare hands. I did not even know such a thing was possible…"

Mira nodded, making a mental note to never cross Tiadora if she could possibly help it. That the blond woman was dangerous she had known already, but given her appearance she had assumed that the threat would come from her magic or a silver tongue, not raw physical might. It was yet another reminder about the dangers of judging by appearances, one she would have to remember.

"We tried to fight, but she was too strong." Timeon continued, having taken the time to gather his wits before continuing. "She struck me, and I must have fallen unconscious, for that is the last thing I remember before waking up here… well, in one of the nearby rooms. I must have come around before they were expecting, because I managed to slip away and hide. They've been searching for me ever since… I hear them sometimes, talking with one another nearby, but they've never found me."

Mira grimaced, understanding the truth that had evidently slipped past the squire's understanding. If Tiadora had wanted him to stay where she had put him it would have been trivially easy. She could have employed magic, a locked door or even a length of rope, but instead she had apparently left the squire unattended and unbound long enough for him to regain consciousness and 'escape'. That Timeon had then proceeded to elude capture in an unfamiliar area when terrified almost out of his wits, but still been close enough to overhear his pursuers talking, merely confirmed her suspicions. The squire had been placed here deliberately, just one more element of the labyrinth to serve as her test, another opportunity for her to prove her worth to her new patron.

All of which meant that he was supremely unlikely to make it out of here alive. Even if they found Sir Balin and convinced the knight to come with them – a difficult task in itself, given what she had heard of him and the fact that he had almost certainly learned of her trial and disgrace – this labyrinth was directly underneath Thorn's local base of operations. That alone meant that the squire knew too much to ever be allowed to return to his order, for even the vaguest report on what he had encountered so far would see the area swarming with knights and members of the Inquisition within a week. If Timeon tried to leave, Tiadora would slay him without a second thought, and if Mira attempted to help him slip away she would be betraying her masters interests barely a day after pledging herself to his service.

That bothered her in a way that she was not entirely sure how to express. The Order of the Alerion could only ever be an enemy to her now, a relentless and powerful organisation dedicated to purging her kind from the earth and upholding the social order she sought to overturn, and certainly she had no problems with the notion of slaying her enemies. But the squire was barely even a man, let alone a full-blown knight sworn to oppose her, and the fact that he desired to join the Order was no real mark against him. The Order and the Brotherhood were the only two knightly organisations of any size in Talingarde these days, and it was a bitter truth only the former could really promise a glorious or successful career in the good graces of the King. Indeed, if Timeon was not of noble birth – and despite what some of her more hide-bound and prejudiced comrades might think, a noble heritage was neither visible to the eyes or any kind of requirement for true worth – then the Order would have been his only real choice for social advancement. In his position, she would likely have done much the same thing.

Rather than slaying him herself or otherwise sending him to his death, then, he deserved at least a chance at survival. But how could such a thing be arranged? In truth, Mira could only really see one option. If Timeon could not be allowed to leave for fear that he would return to the Knights of the Alerion, then she would have to see to it that he no longer considered that as a practical option. Convince him to serve Thorn, as she did, and the Cardinal might be persuaded to permit his survival.

"Ah… Sir Barca?" The squire asked timidly. "Are you alright?"

With a start Mira realised that she had been allowing her introspections to drag on for far too long, leaving her standing there in silence while the squire waited on her response. She did not have an eternity to plot her next course of action; therefore, a degree of improvisation would be required.

"I apologise. You gave me much to think about." She said with a smile, assessing the squire with a careful gaze. There was fear and doubt in his posture, as well as a kind of desperate hope that seemed to be centred on her and the chance of survival that she offered. Not the best material to work with when attempting a conversion, but it would have to do. "In truth, I owe you apologies for rather more than that. The blond woman that attacked you… I know her as Tiadora, and we serve the same master."

Timeon blinked in confusion, then stepped back as though afraid she was about to go for his throat. "What? But she… she's a monster! She attacked us without provocation, brought us to this terrible madhouse. And… you are a knight! She should be your enemy, the enemy of any loyal servant of Mitra!"

"I don't recall saying I was a servant of Mitra." Mira said mildly, taking some small enjoyment in the utter shock that crossed Timeon's features at the mere thought. With slow, careful motions she reached over and removed her vambrace, pulling aside the cloth underneath to expose her forearm and the runic brand she bore there. "The Lord of Light has declared me his enemy, so I owe him no reverence or fealty. Nor, for that matter, do you."

Timeon's limbs shook with fear and shock and he took another step backwards, placing his back against the brick wall once again. "But… that's ridiculous! Of course I owe him fealty, he's my god! I've worshipped him since I was old enough to say the words, I can't just turn my back on him now!"

"Why?" Mira asked softly, replacing her vambrace and covering the shameful mark once again. It was important not to come across as too threatening here, for Timeon's heart would never change if he felt he was being forced into it, and if he did not change he would not survive. "What has Mitra done to be worthy of such obedience? Did he protect you from your enemies? Did he free you from this maze? When you were here, hiding in the dark, hunted by monsters and praying desperately salvation… did he answer? Did he show you a sign, share with you the comfort of his light, or give you any sign at all? No. He has abandoned you, Timeon."

The squire flinched back as if struck, but did not protest what she said, and Mira knew that she had been right. It was something of a gamble, basing her argument on things she had no reliable way to know, but it was a reasonable enough guess. Lost and alone, it was only natural that the frightened young boy would have prayed to his god for salvation. And here, in a realm far away from the touch of the sunlight and under the very feet of the High Priest of Asmodeus, it was no surprise that he had never received any answer. In such a situation, it was only natural that Timeon would begin to doubt, if only in the distant corners of his mind and now she had brought that doubt to the fore. He was shaken, the foundations of his world view crumbling from underneath him and his heart griped in the most terrible kind of fear. Now she had to turn that around and give him hope again.

"I was like you, once." She continued, keeping her voice as smooth and steady as she knew how, aware that faltering would convince the boy that she was lying and close his heart to her words forever. "Lost, abandoned by my comrades and my King, and doomed to die in some dank pit from which there could be no escape. But I did escape, Timeon, just like you can, for I remembered what Mitra and those who serve him would rather we all forget. The Lord of Light is not the only god who watches over Talingarde, and the others are not nearly as silent as he. In my hour of need I cried out for those gods, begging for salvation and relief… and I was answered."

Timeon was staring at her now, barely even moving, hanging on her every word much as a drowning man might grasp at a thrown rope. Smiling, Mira reached into one of the pouches on her belt and withdrew the silver pentagram she carried there, the polished metal flashing in the firelight. The squire's eyes locked onto the sign, and he gasped. "You serve the Adversary?"

His words were incredulous, but there was not nearly as much horror and loathing in his tone and she might have suspected, and in that moment she knew that she had him. That she had been forced to prey on his fear and weakness to accomplish that left a bad taste in her mouth, but she did not have the time available to pursue any other method even while the stakes demanded that she make the attempt.

"I serve Asmodeus." She corrected firmly, unwilling to refer to her new deity in the terms reserved for an enemy. "It is no great sin, despite what the priests of Mitra might tell you. He was the patron of Talingarde for centuries before the House of Darius came to power, and the country prospered greatly under his guiding hand. Even the Victor saw how foolish it would be to disregard such a wise and powerful god, allowing his church to continue operations even as he elevated the worship of Mitra above all others."

"But they drove the King mad!" Timeon responded, desperately reaching for anything with which he could refute her claims, acting largely on instinct as his preconceived notions of how the world worked began to collapse around him. "Markaddian the Third went completely insane after they poisoned him. They nearly destroyed the country!"

"Did they? Or were they simply convenient scapegoats?" Mira asked flatly, having heard this line of argument before. It was one of the strongest arguments against allowing any kind of Asmodean influence to remain in Talingarde, a key part of the history books even now. After the Victor had died his throne was inherited by his first son, a scholarly man without much interest in the finer points of public relations who none the less took the name Markaddian in honour of his father. He'd eventually been overthrown and murdered by the Victor's other son, who had spent years serving as the public face of the royal family and was thus accepted as the new King with relatively little fuss. Of all the Darian kings, the rule of Markaddian III was by far the shortest, characterised by his rapid slide into blasphemy and madness. It had eventually reached the point where he started to proclaim himself as the avatar of Mitra on earth, issuing orders for the construction of a great portal to Hell, through which he would lead the armies of Talingarde in a glorious crusade.

Six months to the day after he ascended to the Throne, Markaddian the Third had fallen to his death from the highest tower of the palace, allegedly having become convinced that he could fly like the angel he thought he was. Personally, Mira thought there was probably some connection between the King's endless blasphemy and the group of Paladins that were the only witnesses to his ill-fated flight, but airing that suspicion was unlikely to achieve anything worthwhile so she kept silent, just like everyone else.

The Mad King was succeeded to the throne by his nephew, who once again took the name Markaddian in honour of his grandfather. It had been the Fourth King that had begun what would become known as the Asmodean Purges, blaming the foul magic of the devil-worshippers for his uncle's madness and earning himself the sobriquet of 'The Zealous'. The Infernal Church was banned from the isle, worship of Hell or the possession of infernal relics written into law as capital crimes, and within a generation virtually all traces of the once-vibrant faith had been exterminated. More than a few Barcans, unable or unwilling to hide their continued observance of their father's faith, had gone to the pyre in the process; one more crime for which the House of Darius would pay dearly.

"Men do not need the touch of Hell to fall to madness, Timeon, and the new King never offered any more proof than his word." She continued, watching the young squire's resolve crumble away like sand before the tide. "The Shining Lord claims that honesty and integrity are critical values in any king worthy of the name, but his Church was more than willing to take a lie and use it to destroy their political opponents, even at the cost of hundreds of lives lost in a nation-wide witch hunt."

Timeon was trembling now; no longer able to hold back his tears, but he did not shy away or deny her words so she pressed onwards. "They do not deserve your loyalty, Timeon. They never did. Mitra has abandoned you – he will not save you, will not free you, will not even show you the simplest sign to justify the faith you have put in him for so many years."

Staying where she was, Mira extended her hand to the trembling squire. "But Asmodeus will. I will. You have a choice here, Timeon, a chance to take control over your own fate. You can keep faith with Mitra, in which case you will die down here, alone in the dark and abandoned by the Light in your hour of need. Or… you can come with me, and I will show you the truths behind the lies that you have been told all of your life."

Timeon blinked at that, his eyes watery and his voice trembling. "I… what of Sir Balin? I'm his squire, I can't abandon him down here…"

"Of course you can't." Mira answered, allowing approval to colour her voice. "Your loyalty does you credit, Timeon. Come with me, and when we find him I will tell him what I have told you. I do not know what he will say, but he deserves a chance, just as you do."

Honestly, Mira was all but sure that Sir Balin would rather take his own life than place himself in debt to a devil-worshipper, let alone forsake his vows and his god. His reputation was not that of a man given to doubt or introspection, and chances were he would attack her the moment he worked out who and what she was. Still, you never knew, and the words seemed to reassure Timeon enough to make them worthwhile.

The squire took a deep breath, collecting himself and mustering his courage. Then, in a single motion, he stepped forwards and took her outstretched hand in his own.

"I accept."


	5. Act Two - Fallen Knights

Way of the Wicked Chapter Five

The dead man let out a horrible gargling roar and swung his axe, bringing it around in a high overhead arc with terrible force and speed.

Frowning, Mira stepped back and to the side, allowing the corroded weapon to clang off of the stones underfoot with a noise like some great temple bell. Then, while the zombie struggled to remove the embedded weapon from the ground once again, she stepped back in and slid her sword neatly into her opponent's guts, slicing straight past the rusted suit of mail it still wore to bite into the flesh beneath. It would have been a serious and incapacitating wound against any living opponent, but whatever fell energies had animated these corpses evidently didn't care about the normal rules of anatomy, because the zombie simply moaned dully and began pulling itself further down the blade in an attempt to get at her throat. Grimacing, Mira took a firm hold on the hilt and dragged it sideways, fighting not to gag as the zombie's guts split open and a torrent of murky black fluid splashed all over the floor.

The stench in the small room was almost unbelievably vile. Wherever Thorn had acquired these walking corpses, they had evidently been dead for quite some time and spent a considerable portion of that time immersed in seawater. What little remained of their clothing was tattered and waterlogged, the flesh underneath half rotted and swollen with the ugly process of decay. Their weapons, primarily great axes and glances of an unfamiliar style were all rusted and broken, but still more than dangerous when wielded with such a dark enthusiasm. Whether it was some distant memory that imparted a level of skill to the dead men's movements, or simply a remorseless hunger for bloodshed that drove them on, Mira could not deny that these creatures were fearsome opponents. She suspected it was the latter, for one glance at the heavy and rusted manacles that bound their feet together told her that these men had not died well, and every story she had ever heard suggested that such a terrible end was much more likely to result in the restless and vengeful dead.

Still, even powered by hate and dark magic, the zombies still needed to obey some of the world's natural laws. Her brutal work with the sword had removed many of the muscle groups that the corpse needed to hold itself upright, and with a moan like a falling tree it toppled over sideways. Even then it remained dangerous, slowly starting to drag its uncooperative body forwards across the cold ground towards her, but before it could move more than a foot Timeon stepped up and smashed a heavy mace into the thing's skull. The zombie dropped, and this time did not move again.

Breathing as hard as she could stomach given the lingering stench, Mira nodded in thanks to the squire, pleased at her decision to bring him along. Timeon was not a trained warrior, at least not to the standards she was used to, but he could swing a weapon well enough and had a careful eye for both detail and timing that had served them well so far. They'd gone through several more chambers since she had first found him, and in each he'd been able to identify some critical aspect of the test that had momentarily slipped past her attention or otherwise supported her as she worked. Doubtless she could have managed them on her own, but his presence made her progress both faster and easier, and that was something to be grateful for at least.

More than that, it seemed that being relied upon in such a fashion was precisely the sort of prompting he'd needed to get past the lingering shock and fear that had all but paralyzed him in the torture chamber. Supporting the work of a knight with skill was evidently comfortably familiar ground for the squire, and having a weapon with which to defend himself steadied the nerves considerably. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but at least he'd managed to get his metaphorical feet back under him, and that would have to be enough for now.

"Think that was all of them?" Timeon asked breathlessly, stepping back again and shaking the mace in an attempt to remove the worst of the gore from it. It wasn't the sort of weapon she would have expected him to favour, but they hadn't exactly been spoiled for choice, having recovered this one from a ceremonial display that had looked bizarrely out of place in one of the previous corridors they'd passed through.

"Looks like it." Mira replied, sweeping her gaze over the rest of the room in search of anything else that might pose a threat. There were eight coffins here, all thoroughly water-logged and encrusted with barnacles and brine, but so far only four of them had opened to disgorge their undead inhabitants. If there were any corpses in the remainder, they were evidently content to remain sleeping peacefully, and she had precisely no intention of disturbing them if she did not have to. "Let's keep moving."

There was only one route out of the room, a short corridor in the far wall that terminated in a solid oak door. A single glance confirmed that whatever was past it was evidently not something that Cardinal Thorn wanted free and roaming around the tunnels, for the door was reinforced with iron bands and there was a hefty lock holding it shut. That was more than a little ominous, considering the strange and dangerous things she had seen elsewhere in the labyrinth already, but Mira found herself less interested in the door and more in the small sign on the wall next to it.

 _Serve your master well, and ye shall be rewarded._

Next to the sign was a nail hammered deeply into the wall, and hanging from that nail was a simple key of polished steel. Mira picked it up and weighed it in her hand for a moment, glancing over at the locked door once more. The sign seemed to suggest that whatever was beyond the door was probably the last thing she would have to face in this maze, the guardian of the amulet that she was down here seeking, while being handed the key indicated that engaging it would be her decision. In theory, she could turn and walk away here, the route back to the manor cleared of all obstruction and easy to follow, but she was well aware that such a course of action was not really an option. Quite aside from what Thorn would do to her if she disobeyed his orders and failed to retrieve the amulet, her pride forbade her from retreating without even making an [i]attempt[/i] at this last challenge. That feeling would probably get her killed one of these days, but it was an intrinsic part of who she was, so there was no use lamenting it. Instead, she approached the door and glanced back at Timeon.

"Be ready."

The squire nodded grimly and hefted his weapon, evidently determined to do whatever it took to survive this last encounter and escape from the labyrinth. Taking a breath to steady herself, Mira pushed the key into the lock and turned it, listening to the sound of metal on metal as whatever complicated mechanism inside the door slowly opened. Leaving the key there, Mira hefted her sword in one hand and pushed the door open with the other, bracing herself for whatever might be on the far side.

For all the tension the door had created, however, what lay beyond was almost depressingly mundane; A single room, no more than twenty foot square and carved out of bare stone, lit by the ever-present torches and utterly deprived of any real distinguishing features compared to all that had come before. There seemed little doubt that the challenge here was not to come from the room itself, but rather the sole being that occupied it.

Kneeling in the centre of the small chamber, hands clasped together in prayer, was a man. Tall of height and brought of shoulder, clad from head to foot in heavy plate armour that was itself covered in numerous dents and scratches, he exuded an almost palpable sense of physical threat. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed, yet for all that there seemed to be no doubt that the man was perfectly aware of his surroundings, ready at any moment to take up the sword and shield that lay nearby and through himself into violent conflict. Mira had met many dangerous and experienced men in her time, many of whom seemed drawn to the frontiers of civilization by the fierce desire for battle that burned forever in their hearts, but there was something about this knight that set him apart from even that exalted company.

It was, she decided, his faith. Many Knights made a great show of their piety, throwing themselves into battle with prayers to Mitra upon their lips, but much rarer were the ones who truly seemed to understand what it was they were saying. The ones who did were almost always the quiet ones, those who made their way through life calmly secure in the bastion that only true conviction could provide, and she had long since learned to mark such men as more dangerous by far than the loud-mouthed braggarts that surrounded them. To find such a man in a place like this was unlikely in the extreme, which meant that he had been brought and imprisoned here for a reason, and that in turn suggested an identity even before she heard Timeon's gasp of delighted recognition.

"Sir Balin, I presume."

The witch hunter looked up at her words, opening his eyes and unclasping his hands. He had the look of a man who had been through a great deal of strife recently, the marks of battle upon his armour and the signs of near-starvation on his face, but despite it all there was no sign of weakness in the cold blue depths of his eyes. She recognized the tabard he wore over his armour, emblazoned with the Mitran star and the soaring Eagles of the Knights of the Aelerion, but it was the medallion that hung from around his neck that truly drew her attention; a brilliant sapphire set in a star of purest silver, it was undoubtedly the item that Adrastus Thorn had sent her to retrieve, and just as surely one that the knight would not surrender easily.

"Mirabelle Barca." He replied, his words flat and hard as he pushed himself to his feet. "Forsaken of Mitra. Last I hard, you were bound for Branderscar prison. What trickery has brought you here instead?"

He recognized her, then. That was unfortunate, for it immediately ruled out a great many options she might have otherwise had, but in some ways the enforced simplicity could be a good thing, for it freed her to act as she desired without being restrained by the need for some elaborate charade. With that in mind, she stepped forward into the small chamber, allowing the light from the torches to fully illuminate her.

"No trickery, Sir Balin." She said softly, free hand rising to touch the infernal icon that hung around her neck. "Simply patronage. I am, as you say, forsaken by Mitra, but the Shining Lord is not the only god to take an interest in this land. There are other faiths that survive here still, despite the arrogant supremacy of your teachings, and in them I have found more power and acceptance than was ever offered by the blinding hypocrisy of your sun-god."

"You have embraced the Adversary." It was not a question, simply a cold statement of fact with all the weight of a fanatic's conviction behind it. With slow and deliberate movements, Sir Balin bent down and retrieved his sword and shield from the ground, both items worn and scarred from long use but perfectly functional despite that. "I am not surprised. They should have cut your head off when the sentence was passed down, not thrown you in a hole long enough to fall prey to doubt and weakness. At least then your soul might have been spared judgement, even if your life was taken by rule of the law."

"Judgement? What sin is it you think I have committed?" She replied, hefting her own sword and settling back into a fighting stance. "Your church has taken everything from me - my rank, my title, my hopes for the future and any chance I had of living an ordinary life. Now you would condemn me for taking the chance to reclaim what I have lost, instead of dying on command?"

"I have no interest in listening to your self-deluded excuses." Sir Balin said flatly, his eyes roving over her with a predator's gaze, identifying weaknesses in her stance and planning how best to exploit them. "You stand under sentence of death, and if I must serve as executioner to see justice done then so be it."

Mira grinned fiercely, studying the way that the knight held himself and plotting out the best course of action for her first moves. To try and plan more than the first few steps of an active combat was foolish at best, for one could never truly predict what an enemy would do with any particular accuracy, but even so a strong start to a conflict would go a long way towards seeing her victorious at the end of it all. Before she could put that plan into action, however, she was interrupted.

"Please, Sir Balin, wait." Timeon said, stepping up beside Mira with a worried expression on his face. "We can't afford to fight here."

"Timeon?" For the first time, Balin's gaze held something other than burning faith or cold conviction, faint hints of surprise and genuine concern breaking his composure for the briefest of instants. "Thank the light, you're alive. I was worried."

"I know, sir. I feared for you as well." Timeon said, evidently touched by the sentiment behind the words. He gestured to Mira. "She saved me, sir. She found me in the darkness, gave me a weapon and the strength to fight. We've been fighting our way to you ever since. Please, we don't have to be enemies."

If the squire had hoped that referencing Mira's consideration for his welfare would impress or mollify the knight, he was shortly disappointed. Balin's eyes simply hardened at the news, turning an accusing gaze back upon Mira.

"You 'found' him, did you?" He growled out. "After condemning us to this labyrinth in the first place, no doubt. I knew there was something dark behind all of this, even if I could not guess at the specifics, but now I see the truth. It was you and your fellow devil-worshippers that built this place, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Mira admitted, laughing softly at the expression on Balin's face. "Why, were you expecting me to deny it? My master brought you and Timeon here as a test for me, to see how I would handle you. Your squire, I spoke with, and made him an offer that he accepted. You... I will probably have to kill, unless you are far more open to reason than it currently seems."

"'Reason'?" There was fury in Sir Balin's tone now, a sense of deep and unforgivable personal offense. "You hide poison and damnation behind a veil of sweet words and call it reason? I will have no part in this charade. Mitra will protect me."

Now, Mira laughed, making the sound as scornful and mocking as she possibly could. "Really? He seems to have done a terrible job of it thus far. You are alone, facing the inevitability of death far from the sight or knowledge of your peers, doomed to die and be forgotten. Face it, knight, Mitra has abandoned you."

"No." Sir Balin responded in a low growl, all but oblivious to the pleading expression on Timeon's face as the squire tried to place himself between the two knights. "He has allowed me to be brought here that I might face you, and deliver the justice you deserve before you can drag anyone else down into Hell with you! Saint Martius, guide my blade!"

With that, Sir Balin flung himself forwards, lifting his sword high as he charged across the short distance separating them. Timeon, caught between them with few options and no way to defuse the situation, flung himself out of the way with a startled yelp, while Mira smiled and raised her sword. She'd always enjoyed a good fight, relishing the chance to pit her skills against a worthy opponent, but it was rare indeed to be presented with an opportunity such as this. Laughing, she stepped forwards to meet the charge head-on.

Sir Balin was a large man clad in heavy armour, so when he charged and placed all of his force and momentum behind his sword the result was a strike of almost overwhelming power. That was how he had been trained to fight, the same way most of his kind fought, focusing his efforts on landing a series of powerful blows while relying on his armour and shield to protect him from retaliation. It was uncomplicated and brutally effective, a style of fighting made for slaying one's enemies on the battlefield rather than putting on a show in the courts, but that was precisely what she would have expected from him. And because she expected it, Mira knew she could defeat it. The only question was how.

The first strike would be an arcing overhead blow, aiming at her head and shoulders with the intent of ending the fight as quickly as possible. She could see the decision in her opponent's eyes, read the intention in the subtle movements of his limbs, and as opening moves went it was not a bad one. She lacked the strength or positioning to parry such an attack outright, a fact so obvious that Sir Balin probably expected her to dodge out of the way rather than risk a direct clash.

Ordinarily, she would have done just that, or perhaps parried in such a way as to turn his momentum aside and send him stumbling past her, but neither of those seemed quite _right_ somehow. They were the choices that Captain Barca would have made, the fighting style that her old self would have called upon, but that wasn't who she was anymore. It seemed important to draw a line between who she was and who she had once been, to find a way to describe the former that did not rely on a relationship with the latter. She was not just the same person fighting on a different side, nor some shallow mirror image that defined itself through opposition.

Who was she now, then? She had changed in that cell, a transformation furthered when she had signed the contract with Thorn, but what was the catalyst for that change, the key element around which everything else revolved? Just as quickly as the questions came the answer. It was her faith, newly formed and poorly defined at present but powerful all the same. And if her faith was what distinguished her as she was now from who she had been, then it only made sense that it would be her faith which decided how she responded to this threat.

Smiling, Mira raised her sword in front of her, a silent salute that mocked her foe even as he drew within range and began the motions necessary to launch his attack. Her lips parted, and she whispered the words that came so naturally as to have always been there, in the back of her mind.

"Asmodeus. Grant me the strength to destroy your enemies."

It wasn't just a saying, no simple oath or invocation like the one that Sir Balin had voiced before beginning his attack. It was a _prayer_ , not made out of desperation or cold necessity but in an expression of simple devotion. And just as it had been in the cell, it was a prayer that was answered.

Power flowed through her, starting in her heart and soul and spreading out to soak into every part of her body. Her blood burned as though set aflame, and her muscles trembled under the force of the unholy power that surged through them. The stone floor underfoot began to grow warm, as though heated by distant fires burning far below, and the scent of brimstone and ash was unmistakeable. Even the air itself reacted, saturated with power to the point where it formed an almost-physical barrier around her. As she watched, Sir Balin's sword met the edges of that barrier and began to slow down, as though the knight were attempting to strike her while underwater. It was not enough to stop the attack, but as the knight realized what was going on and his eyes widened in shock, it _did_ create an opening.

With a fierce smile, Mira lashed out, meeting the descending sword with an attack of her own. In stark contrast to her opponent, her movements were free and unhindered, imbued with great speed and force by the divine blessings laid upon her. Steel met steel with a thunderous crash, producing a glittering sheet of sparks that sailed across the room. Unprepared for such a forceful response, Sir Balin staggered backwards, only keeping a hold on his sword with the aid of long experience and an iron determination. It was that same training and experience that caused him to raise his shield in instinctive defense as he reeled backwards, which was likely all that saved his life as Mira switched her grip and brought her own sword crashing down once more.

Driven by inhuman strength and infused with infernal power, the sword bit deeply into the heavy steel frame of the shield and sheared straight through, the reinforced metal offering no more resistance than a block of cheese. Even so it was enough to keep the blade from biting into flesh, and Balin lived long enough to watch a solid chunk of his shield fall away and clatter onto the floor.

"What in Mitra's name..." He breathed, eyes wide with horror and the first stirrings of fear. Despite his shock, though, he maintained enough discipline to fall back in good order, adopting a defensive stance and readying his sword for another attack.

"I told you already, Sir Balin." Mira said, her smile broader and more obvious now. The power singing in her veins was deliciously potent, almost to the point of being intoxicating, and it was a genuine struggle to restrain the urge towards mad laughter as she raised her own sword once more. "There are more gods than yours in this world, and they have made me their agent. Something that a blinkered fool like you could never understand."

Balin scowled, and raised his sword. "Come, then." He all but spat, his words laced with defiant hate. "Claim the reward you sold your soul to obtain."

Laughing in earnest now, Mira obliged him.

It was a fight that could only truly end one way. Sir Balin was a brave man, a trained warrior with years of experience behind him. He had fought witches and monsters, traded blows with some of the most dangerous and degenerate creatures that threatened the land of Talingarde, driven only by faith and duty. But Mirabelle Barca was all of that and more, a living conduit for the unmatchable power of the lower planes, a dark champion of the Pit. She drove her opponent back across the room with an endless series of powerful strikes, turning aside his desperate attempts to counter-attack with precise parries or the raw force of her unholy power, drawing blood and sparks with every blow. Eventually, they reached the far wall, and Sir Balin had nowhere else to go.

With a furious cry upon his lips, the Knight of the Alerion threw aside the tattered remains of his shield and lunged forwards, putting all of his skill and strength behind one last desperate attack. Despite the unholy strength of her aura and the steel breastplate she wore, he still managed to overcome her defenses and deliver a solid hit, leaving a long gash down her left arm that began to bleed heavily and drawing a hiss of pain from her lips. It was a noble effort, but one bought at significant cost, the desperation move leaving the knight entirely defenseless and with his back to the wall. Pushing past the pain from her arm, Mira hefted her sword once more and thrust it home.

The sharpened steel of the blade struck a weak spot on Sir Balin's breastplate, created by an earlier strike, and punched straight through. It sliced through flesh and scraped against bone, before erupting from his back and biting into the stone wall beyond. Impaled, the knight coughed wetly, scarlet blood staining his lips and running down his chin. With what seemed to be great effort, he raised his head and looked her in the eye, the final exchange having brought them so close together as to be almost touching.

"Mitra... curse you..." He wheezed, and then fell silent, the strength leaving his body at last.

With a grunt, Mira pulled the sword free once more, watching as Sir Balin's body collapsed to the ground. She stared down at him for a few moments, feeling the infernal power slowly leave her body and the throbbing pain in her arm begin to grow ever fiercer. Eventually, she nodded to herself and bent down, plucking the silver and sapphire amulet from around his neck and tucking it away in one of the pouches on her belt.

"He already did." She said quietly to the corpse of her fallen foe, nodding in respect. Sir Balin had been a brave and skilled fighter, loyal to the end. It just hadn't been enough. That done, she turned to Timeon.

The squire was sitting on the ground on the far side of the room, his back pressed up against the wall and his eyes wide as he stared at her. The expression on his face was hard to decipher, somewhere between awe and fear and anger, but judging by the way his limbs were shaking he didn't know quite what to feel either. "You... you killed him..."

"Of course I did." She replied flatly. "He was my enemy, and he was trying to kill me in turn. Being a knight means accepting that some day you may very well be called upon to give up your life in service to the cause. Sir Balin knew that."

She paused for a moment, studying the boy, wondering how long he had been serving Sir Balin. Had the witch hunter been merely the latest master in a long line of knights, or had he been a permanent fixture in the boy's life, a living example of the kind of man Timeon wanted to become? "All the same, if you want revenge for this, I can't blame you. I won't just give it to you without a fight, but it's there if you want to take it."

"No, I..." The squire began, his voice trailing off as he met her gaze. He was silent for a moment, then looked down, his tone laced with more than a little bitterness as he continued. "There wouldn't be much point in trying. You are too strong, and I... I'm still weak."

"True." Mira said with a nod. "But it does not need to stay that way. Asmodeus rewards strength and willpower, as you have seen. If you are willing to work for it, one day you will be able to attain the same kind of strength. Come with me and I will train you, show you how to fight and how to wield the same power I do. Or stay down here in the dark, knowing you will never be anything other than a lowly squire. It is, as always, your choice."

Slowly, Timeon began to push himself to his feet. She thought about offering him a hand, but decided against it - he needed to be able to stand on his own, in more sense than one. So she simply watched as the squire walked across the room and knelt down by the side of his defeated master, muttering something that might have been some kind of prayer before reaching out and closing the corpse's eyes. Then he stood once more and turned to face her, perfectly silent, his face an expressionless mask.

She nodded to him, and they left the chamber together.


	6. Act Two - The Nessian Knot

Way of the Wicked Chapter Six

Thorn was waiting for her in the same library he had used for their initial meeting, once again seated in his comfortable throne-like chair behind the large wooden desk. Seeing him there, Mira was struck by the sudden realization that she'd never actually seen him anywhere else. The servants had given her a quick tour of the building when she was settling in, but while many of the rooms she had been shown were set aside for the use of her and a number of Thorn's other agents, she couldn't remember any of them actually being reserved for the Cardinal himself. Come to think of it, Tiadora didn't seem to have chambers here either. The two of them had to have somewhere that they spent their nights, but it evidently wasn't here, and she hadn't seen any signs of them coming and going through any conventional means either.

Mentally chalking it up as one more mystery among dozens that seemed to hang around her new master and his organization, Mira shrugged off the momentary hesitation and moved forwards into the library. She'd left Timeon in the care of one of the servants, not wanting to bring him into a meeting with Adrastus Thorn unprepared or without invitation, so there was no-one but the Cardinal to see her as she collapsed into one of the spare chairs. Displaying even this much weakness in front of another galled her to some extent, but if Thorn had been able to observe her throughout the entirety of her time in that dungeon it seemed rather pointless to try and hide something so minor from him now. Besides, even if she had tried to hide her fatigue she probably wouldn't have done a particularly good job of it, her thoughts and reactions alike slowed by the exhaustion that was now creeping up upon her. When her life was on the line it was relatively easy to push past the weariness and soldier on; it was in moments of peace and quiet like this one that the real cost of such endurance started to appear.

"You've returned." Thorn said neutrally, looking her up and down with a gaze that betrayed nothing of the thoughts behind it. "In good time as well. I trust you were successful?"

Mira snorted at that, too tired to muster a proper laugh, and fished the medallion out of the pouch on her belt. She tossed it onto the desk with a flick of the wrist, slumping back in her chair once more. "You know I was. Quite an ingenious little obstacle course you have down there, I have to admit. Did you make it just for me?"

"In a manner of speaking." Thorn replied, allowing a small smile to tug at his lips. "That course is the sort of thing that I put all of my new recruits through, though individual circumstances may require a few tweaks to the specifics of each test. You understand my motives, I'm sure - one can never be too careful when it comes to ascertaining quality, especially for a matter such as this."

"Mm." Mira said neutrally, still unsure whether the man sitting opposite her was brilliantly unconventional or simply mad. "Anyone ever died down there?"

"No one of any consequence." The reply was calm and smoothly delivered, evidently intended to reassure and dismiss in equal measure, but she caught the subtext all the same. If Thorn tested all of his agents in such a fashion upon their recruitment, then anyone who failed and died would be new and untested at the time, their loss by definition of little consequence to the greater organization and Thorn's plans in general. It was another reminder about the price that failure in his eyes could carry. No matter how friendly the Cardinal might appear, he was evidently still prepared to be quite ruthless when it came to pursuing his goals. "Speaking of which, you seem to have brought someone back with you?"

"The squire Timeon, yes." Mira said, willing herself to speak carefully here. It would not do for all her fine words to the boy to be rendered meaningless by an ill-thought comment here. "I feel he has some potential. It seems a possibility worth exploring, and in the mean-time I can always use another servant."

She'd been expecting Thorn to raise some kind of objection, perhaps noting that she had killed his master and therefore could not afford to trust the boy, which she in turn could counter with her own arguments and attempts at persuasion. Instead, the Cardinal simply nodded, either accepting her judgement or simply not caring enough about the matter to offer further comment. Instead, he reached forwards and picked up the knight's amulet from where it lay on the table, holding it by the chain and allowing the silver star to turn slowly in the air.

"A pretty enough thing, isn't it?" He said in an oddly contemplative tone of voice, staring at the sapphire set into the heart of the amulet as though he could see something of note in the azure depths. "The star is often favoured as a symbol of Mitra by the more militant members of the faith. This type of holy symbol in particular is often favoured by the Knights of the Alerion... but of course, you already knew that."

Mira frowned slightly, unsure where the priest was going with his particular tangent. Was it another test, a subtle prompt to see what else she might be able to glean from the presented evidence? That kind of analysis wasn't exactly her strongest suite, but Thorn _had_ promised to train her, so perhaps this was simply him getting an early start on that process. With that in mind, she considered what she knew about the Mitran faith and their militant orders, placing it in context with the amulet as quickly as she could.

"I did... though it is a surprise to find that the sapphire is genuine." She said slowly, giving herself as much time as possible to decide upon the proper phrasing for her ideas. "That's an expensive piece of jewelry, something I would not have expected someone like Sir Balin to favour. He struck me more as one of the humbler and pragmatic varieties of knight, someone who would place emphasis on function before form. A symbol made of wood or coloured glass would have seemed more in keeping with the rest of his image. A... gift, perhaps, from a mentor or grateful citizen of more affluent means?"

"Quite possibly. It is often the smallest details that tell us the most about our enemies." Thorn said, nodding in obvious approval of her deductions. "And make no mistake, Sir Mira, they _are_ our enemies now. The Knights of the Alerion are the backbone of the Talirean military, one of the four pillars that props up the country's society and culture. To see our dreams realized they must be either subverted or destroyed, and I think we both know the former would be considerably more difficult than the latter, if indeed it is possible at all."

Mira nodded in silent agreement. The Knights of the Alerion were famed throughout the land for their faith and devotion to Mitra, often to the point where more than a few started to forget that they were technically a military order and instead found themselves acting as priests with swords. Their ties to the Darian regime were likewise a fundamental part of their character, as the House had been instrumental in their rise to such prominence and even in the worst of times had maintained a positive relationship with them. The current King was a member in all but name, his royal duties preventing him from taking formal oaths but in no way diminishing the bonds of brotherhood that existed between him and many of the Knights. The possibility of turning them away from either of those two loyalties was so unlikely as to be ridiculous, but she had to admit she would not have rated the chances of their total destruction as being all that much higher.

Once again, she was reminded of the sheer scope of the ambitions held by Adrastus Thorn, the level of confidence bordering upon hubris that it must have required to first conceive and then work towards them. Just about every major aspect of the society of an entire nation would have to be demolished or fundamentally revised if his vision was to ever be realized, but Thorn honestly didn't seem to think of that goal as being out of his reach, and that was a prospect so alluring as to be almost enchanting. Win or lose, the idea of playing for such stakes was an irresistible thrill, one that she was coming to relish more and more with every moment.

"Keep it." Thorn said, interrupting her reflection and tossing the amulet back towards her. She caught it out of the air on reflex and raised an inquisitive eyebrow in response. "You are better suited for passing as a knight than most in my organization, and it may help to enhance your disguise."

Her eyes narrowed at that, a smile slowly building at the edge of her mouth. There were not many missions she could think of that would call for her to disguise herself as a Knight of the Alerion, but in those few cases that sprung immediately to mind, the potential impact of what she might accomplished was enough to take the breath away. Thorn evidently caught and understood her anticipation, for he matched her smile with one of his own as he continued.

"You have proven yourself worthy of the potential I saw in you. Escaping Branderscar, slaughtering Sir Balin, even taking the first steps on the path of becoming one of Hell's champions... yes, you have done well indeed. Now it is time to develop and compliment those strengths."

The Cardinal leaned back in his chair, making a broad gesture with one hand. "The next three days are yours to do with as you wish. I suggest relaxing and preparing yourself as best you can. After that... I have three months that can be spared before the time for the next stage in the operation arrives. We will use that time to complete your training..."

-/-

The mace smashed into her elbow with the fury of thunderbolt, shattering the delicate bones of her joint and driving the mangled ruin of her limb into the side of her chest with enough force to crack several ribs. Mira screamed in agony as scarlet fire seemed to burn across her entire flank, the sudden surge of pain enough to drown out all other sensations for a few precious moments as she staggered sideways in a daze.

"You let your guard down." The voice was calm and level to the point of boredom, possessing a refined edge that she had only heard before in the voices of the aristocracy but coloured with an unusual accent that she had yet to successfully place. "If this had been a real fight, that would have been a death blow."

Breathing hard, choking down the swelling sense of nausea in her gut that made her want to do nothing more than fall to her knees and cry, Mira gritted her teeth and raised the shield in her other hand, orientation herself as best she could on where the blow and the voice had come from. It was hopeless, she knew that already - her opponent had just crippled her sword arm, and the weapon itself had clattered to the floor somewhere she hadn't been able to mark while distracted with the pain. The shield was a solid defense, something that could even be used in an attack if the situation to do so presented itself, but it was absolutely no match for the reinforced mace that her opponent seemed to favour.

Not that such a thing would stop him, she knew. Whoever it was that Thorn had brought in to oversee these little training bouts, he evidently didn't place much stock in concepts such as 'mercy' or 'restraint'. Three times now she had fought this man, and each time he had continued the lesson well past the point of sense or sanity, stopping only when her body was sufficiently broken that posing any kind of resistance was a physical impossibility. The treatment she had been subjected to over the past few days should have been enough to put her in a hospital bed for months or even cripple her for life, but each time the servants would come and drag her broken form through the manor until they found Thorn, who would generally chuckle and restore her to health with a single touch. It was completely and utterly _insane_.

"If this were a real fight," she ground out, pain and fury alike changing her words with emotion, "I would not be wearing a fucking _blindfold_."

"You think so?" The slightest sound of jingling metal was her only warning, alerting her that her opponent had somehow managed to work his way around to her left in complete silence despite the heavy armour that he apparently wore. With a speed fueled by desperation she spun and raised her shield once more, just in time to intercept another thundering blow that might well have broken her spine on impact. The metal rang with a sound like a great bell as the two weapons came together, and the disproportionate force sent her staggering away once again. This time, though, she mustered the energy to smile in satisfaction, for she had finally managed to block one of his attacks.

"Only a fool assumes that he will fight on level footing with his enemy." The voice came again, reiterating a common theme to all of the lessons that she had received thus far. "You must be prepared to overcome any obstacle, compensate for any disadvantage in order to attain your goals. In a battle between equal forces, victory goes to the one who is willing and able to endure more and persist longer, no matter how painful or degrading it may be. Honour and compassion are nothing more than weaknesses, fatal distractions that will hold you back from achieving your desires. If you would win, you must be prepared to sacrifice everything that is not the very essence of your victory, for only then will you have the clarity of will to see things through."

It was a lesson and a philosophy that spat in the face of everything she had ever been raised to believe and hold dear, and that was something she would not allow to go unchallenged. Bitter experience had shown that words would not work on this opponent, or at least none that she could think of, so instead she spat to clear her mouth of blood and raised her shield again. She would prove herself the stronger, no matter how long it took.

The faintest sound of displaced air signaled another incoming attack...

-/-

The alchemist's workshop was a small space tucked away in one corner of the manor, little more than a room with a few desks full of equipment. The presence of three people in the room at the same time left it feeling somewhat cramped, but Mira had to admit that was probably the least of her concerns right now.

On the low desk in front of her were arranged three small vials of coloured glass. Each bore within it some kind of strange and ominous looking liquid, and none of them carried any kind of label or other means of working out what was in each one. Timeon stood across from her, his arms crossed and his gaze flat as he regarded her.

"Your pet has quite an impressive aptitude for poisons." Tiadora said with slow relish, and Mira nodded slowly. That the blond woman had been tutoring Timeon in something important and secretive, she had known for days now, but precisely what it was had yet eluded her. Somehow, the prospect of impending answers was not as reassuring as she might have otherwise supposed.

"Poison? Not a... conventional weapon." She replied, when it became clear that some kind of response was called for. In truth the concept of using poison in any kind of combat capacity still filled her with instinctive distaste, a legacy of her days among the more rigidly honour-bound society of the high aristocracy. She wasn't quite so much of a fool as to dismiss the potential applications of a carefully administered toxin just on the basis of such a cultural bias, but even so it just didn't feel quite right to her.

"I do not have much skill with conventional weapons." Timeon responded quietly, still studying her with that cool and distant look in his eyes. "I am neither strong nor particularly fast, and I have no way of becoming either in any kind of useful timeframe. But alchemy... I've always had a talent for that, even if I've previously only used it for amusing trinkets and the odd healing poultice. Playing to my strengths seems wise, and if that means embracing a method shunned by conventional society, well... I have something of an example to follow in that regard."

Wincing slightly, Mira couldn't help but admit that the squire had a point there. She could hardly fill his head with talk about finding his own path despite the judgement of current society and then fairly expect him to adopt her own perspective on absolutely everything. Still, as fascinating as the glimpse into the boy's psyche was, she was quite sure that there was more to today's training than a simple discussion of comparative morality. A quick questioning glance at Tiadora was rewarded with a smile that was positively _predatory_.

"These three bottles hold three different types of poison, each different and impressively potent." She explained. "You are going to drink them."

For a moment, Mira just stared at the other woman, blinking in a complete lack of comprehension. Surely Tiadora could not have just said that, or expect her to comply. "And... why exactly should I start drinking deadly poison?"

"Because learning to do so safely is the next step in your training." Tiadora replied, her tone and expression implying that she was merely deigning to indulge this childish protest for a moment or two. "The ability to smite your enemies with the power of Hell is merely the first of many boons that the Dark Father bestows upon those he deems worthy of being his champions. The second is the triumph of will over the frailties of the mortal form, the ability to leash the might of the lower planes within your own body and drawn upon it as a source of strength and resilience."

She gestured to the bottles. "If you do not wish the poison to affect you, it will not. Unless of course your pet's murderous skills prove superior to your own willpower, but if that is the case then you were never fit to be one of Thorn's agents in the first place."

Mira gritted her teeth in an effort to restrain a sharp retort, remembering what she already knew about this seemingly-ordinary woman. Tiadora had consistently displayed a level of arrogance and sadism that dwarfed anything else she had ever encountered, and from Timeon's story she apparently had the raw might to back that attitude up if required. Trying to demand better treatment than this constant series of jibes and insults would only backfire if she could not back it up with consequences for non-compliance, and right now she didn't have any available. Still, it was immensely galling to be belittled like this on a constant basis, even if Tiadora had not yet gone so far as to start referring to her as a 'pet'.

Well, if she couldn't stop the blond woman from acting like a cruel bitch whenever they had to work together, she could at least reduce the length of time that she had to remain in such company. Right now there was only one way to do that, and as always, hesitation would only reveal further weakness.

With that thought in mind, she picked up the first of the bottles and poured the contents down her throat.

-/-

The air here was cold enough to leave a faint layer of frost across the floor, despite the presence of a roaring fireplace in one wall. Gritting her teeth to keep from shivering, Mira glared at the woman standing across the room from her, trying to decide if the unnatural chill was some form of subtle attack or simply a reflection of how her counterpart preferred things.

Either was possible, but she had little chance of determining which one. Elise Zadaria had proven herself more than capable of hiding her true thoughts beneath a expression that might have been carved from ice for all the warmth or emotion that it showed. The witch was a foreigner, a native of some cold and distant land that Mira had never even heard of, brought here by Thorn to put her ice-magic to use in exchange for pay. Everything about her reflected that fact, from her exotic beauty to the strange cut of her clothes; an elaborate array of furs and animal hide clearly designed for much less tolerable weather than Talingarde's normal climate. Thus far, that foreign origin had confounded Mira's attempts to get a solid read on her, leaving her perpetually unsure which of her decisions and mannerisms were reactions and which were simple legacies of her distant homeland.

She'd had slightly more luck with Elise's team, though even that was marginal. Titus and Tallus Rackburn were both humans, a pair of twin brothers from the same part of the world as Elise, though they had adapted to Talirean culture and customs more easily than their leader. In physical looks the two were identical, from their long dark hair right down to the practical traveling clothes they both wore, but in demeanor they could hardly be more different. Titus was open and casual, a man evidently determined to greet everything the world threw at him with a smile and a glib comment, while his brother could have given a Dwarf lessons in taciturn watchfulness. The two of them had both proven much more willing to engage in idle conversation and friendly competition than Elise, but even then they'd maintained the kind of quiet unity of thought and deed of close siblings, leaving her feeling perpetually like an outsider whenever they spoke.

The fourth member of the band was a true enigma, though of a more direct nature than the others. Dostan, as he had introduced himself when prompted, was a giant of a man with the faint traces of elvish ancestry in his blood, who acted as some kind of bodyguard for Elise and favoured a two-handed greatsword that his muscular build was best suited for. That was the sum total of what she knew about him, for the blond man was prone to answering questions in mono-syllables where possible and offering precisely no information of his own beyond that. She had a few ideas of how to get more out of him, admittedly driven by both curiosity and an appreciation for his good looks more than any higher motive, but they would have to wait until after her current lesson. She scarcely thought that Lord Thorn would be any more tolerant of daydreaming students than her old teachers had been, after all, and had precisely no desire to find out what he would do to someone who he felt was ignoring him.

"In our mission, we will doubtless face enemies both mundane and magical." The priest was saying, his tone taking on the now-familiar lecturing tone that he used whenever he wished to impart knowledge to his agents. If the cold bothered him he did not show it, standing with his hands behind his back in a position perfectly between the two groups. "You will need to learn how to combat both, how to read their movements and counter their strategies, if you are to have any hope of success."

He gestured to Elise. "Miss Zadaria is, as I am sure you are aware, a witch. The bond she shares with her familiar, the reliance she places upon her magic and the form of spells she studies are all archetypical of how the world sees arcane spellcasters, so she will form a useful reference point. Mages in Talingarde are not well regarded by the citizenry and have only limited roles in military tactics, but those that exist are quite capable of fouling any plan if you encounter them without knowing what to expect."

Behind her, Timeon shifted position in his seat, having pulled over a small table and set out a number of pieces of parchment on the surface. It might have looked ridiculous, the very picture of an attentive student that would not have been out of place in any classroom in Talingarde, now surrounded witches and murderers. But Mira had seen some of the notes he had taken previously, read the curious blend of academic wording and lethally pragmatic subject matter, and knew all too well how serious such an image could be.

Thorn gestured to her now. "Miss Barca, by contrast, is a fine example of what will likely be a common type of foe in the future. She was a knight and a military officer, and is therefore trained in the traditional fighting styles of the Talirean military and aristocratic class. Now, she has been trained as a Blackguard, the antithesis of the Paladins that dominate any direct military action undertaken by the servants of Mitra. Her capabilities differ in some respects from those shining paragons of the light, but there are enough commonalities for the general principles to remain the same."

The priest folded his arms once again, a small smile on his face. "The two of you are to do your level best to kill each other. I will observe, offer commentary to your team-mates, and revive the loser. Begin at your discretion."

Elise, eyes wide, turned towards Thorn and opened her mouth to offer some kind of objection or query. Mira, being more than used to the Cardinal's methods by this time and having deduced which direction his lecture was proceeding in some time ago, was already throwing herself forwards into a charge.

Hesitation, after all, was death. And if one of them had to die, it was not going to be her.

-/-

"...so I broke his kneecaps, _then_ stabbed him in the face. That shut him up, the pansy bastard."

The solution to Dostan's grim silence, as it turned out, was alcohol. Copious quantities of it, when coupled with the opportunity to share old war stories with a fellow soldier had opened the large man right up, bringing about a change in his attitude so severe as to be almost unbelievable. Mira chuckled as she listened to his story, amused by both the content and the glee with which the foreigner relayed it, then drained the last of the beer in her tankard in a single swallow.

"I must admit," she said, reached out to refill her mug from the large barrel that they'd dragged over to the table they were using, "I'm a little jealous. My life would be so much simpler if I lived somewhere that didn't mind me stabbing the odd fool who deserved it every now and then."

Dostan grunted in what might have been sympathy, before gesturing to her outstretched arm. "That how you earn that, then? Not been here too long, but I remember hearing they only mark criminals like that. Pretty serious ones at that."

Mira glanced down at her arm, frowning at the sight of the runic brand located there. Oddly, she'd almost forgotten that she bore it upon her skin, the meaning behind it so irrelevant among current company that she'd eventually just put it out of her mind. Most people would have read her silence on the matter and taken the hint not to ask questions, but Dostan was evidently rather more bluntly straight-forward than most people. Or perhaps that was just the alcohol.

"He insulted my family. Another soldier in my garrison, I mean." She said at last, figuring that one story probably earned another. "He wouldn't apologise, and there wasn't much I could do within the regulations to punish him for it, so I challenged him to a duel instead. Wasn't really expecting him to show up, but he did. Maybe he didn't quite understand how serious I was taking things, or maybe he thought he could take me. Either way, I killed him, but I didn't manage to get the sneak that had been spying on us as well. Dueling to the death is a capital offense, so they arrested me and shipped me off to the toughest prison they had, ready to cut my head off. I broke out, with Thorn's help, and ended up here."

It was still galling, speaking of how she had managed to lose everything at the hands of a lowly spy, so she took another mouthful of beer to drown the bitterness. Dostan simply nodded slowly, considering the story and what it might mean, before responding.

"It looks good on you." He said in that characteristically blunt way of his. "Like a proper scar. It says 'you tried to kill me, and I'm still here'. Makes you look strong, and tough, _dangerous_."

Ah, now _there_ was an opportunity she couldn't pass up, Mira thought with a grin. "Do _you_ have any scars like that, Dostan?" She asked innocently, looking him up and down. "Any stories written on your skin that you wouldn't mind sharing?"

"'Course I do." To her delight, he answered her by rolling up his sleeve and flexing one impressively sized bicep, drawing attention to a vicious looking mark that ran from his shoulder almost down to his elbow. "This one here, for example. Don't know if you've got spider-folk here, but back home they're a nasty menace, and one time when they launched a raid against us..."

Smiling, she sat back and raised her mug to her lips once again, more than happy to listen to her counterpart's old war stories for a while. There were worse ways to pass the time, after all, than with drink and the company of a handsome - if not necessarily _good_ \- man.

-/-

 _The Osyluth, skeletal harbingers of death, rack the unworthy and pierce them with bone hooks to hear the truth among their plaintive screams..._

Sighing, Mira sat back in her chair and pushed the book away. It was a rare tome, one of the few treatises on the ranks of devil-kind that had managed to escape destruction in the Asmodean Purges instituted by Markaddian IV 'The Zealous'. Possessing a copy, or even knowing of its location and failing to report it to the authorities was probably the sort of thing that would land even a well-connected nobleman or scholar in deep trouble, maybe even forming sufficient grounds to be sent to the pyre by an unforgiving inquisitor. That Thorn had one indicated one of two things - either he'd been set upon this course for several decades, or he had sufficient influence within the Mitran church to steal something originally confiscated from another infernal sect.

That didn't mean it was in any way a particularly interesting thing to read, however. She had sometimes heard people jest that being forced to read through a remarkably dry and scholarly text was one of the torments of Hell, but apparently the author of this particular work had taken precisely the wrong sort of lesson from such remarks. Honestly, how in the world you took an in-depth study of the byzantine and supernatural hierarchy of Hell and made it _boring_ she would never know, but apparently the anonymous author of this book had found a way.

Still, she had little choice but to press on regardless. Thorn had commanded her to read the book, evidently believing that a champion of Hell's cause on earth needed to understand precisely what it was she was championing, and she knew enough to understand that the consequences for disobedience would be far from minor. Which was fair enough, since she quite agreed that nothing but the highest contempt was appropriate for someone who advocated a cause they did not bother to understand, but by the light and darkness both she wished there was a way of learning it that was less overwhelmingly _dull_.

With another sigh, she pulled the book closer again, turning to the next section in hopes of finding something more engaging.

 _Phistophilus, handsome barely-bestial Devils, reward those who will but turn aside from other, lesser masters and give themselves freely into Hell's embrace..._

-/-

The door was closed, but that was hardly an obstacle, the sturdy portal swinging violently open as the combined weight of two grown people slammed into it. Mira barely noticed the impact, far more concerned with the movement of the iron-hard muscles under her hands than such a petty interruption, while Dostan at least retained enough presence of mind to kick the door shut in their wake as they moved into the room. Locked in passionate embrace, they staggered in the direction of the bed, filling the air with the sound of drunken laughter and appreciative moans.

Distantly, Mira was aware of how some of her more conservative family members would sneer if they could see her now, indulging her baser desires with some low-born thug without any kind of shame or restraint; a _foreigner_ , no less. Aunt Carla in particular would be outraged, probably to the point of sending hired thugs after the man in question and lecturing her wayward niece at great lengths about what was and was not appropriate conduct for a high-born lady such as herself.

Personally, Mira had long since ceased to give the slightest thought or concern about what her more stuck-up and backwards relatives thought of her. She'd been a soldier on the frontier for too long to place much value on the more restrictive dictates of civilian life, and as far as she was concerned what she chose to do with her own life was hers to decide and no-one else's. It wasn't like she'd fallen in love with the man, after all, but she'd been stuck in this manor house for close to eight weeks now, and two months of relentless training and near-isolation would drive anyone to madness. This was stress relief, nothing more.

 _Of course_ , she thought to herself as Dostan's hands continued to wander, _even without that particular justification I probably would have found some excuse to do this sooner or later._

The bodyguard was certainly the most attractive option of those available to her for 'companionship', after all. Thorn and Tiadora were her superiors, which made any kind of fraternization impossible if they hoped to maintain a healthy professional relationship, while the servants were so far beneath her that there was precisely no chance of bedding one of them without their respective positions adding an unavoidable air of coercion to the whole affair. That just left her fellow agents, and of those Tallus was too moody and withdrawn while Titus just left her profoundly unsettled with his constant smile. As for Elise... well, she was certainly attractive enough, and she'd dallied with other woman a couple of times before, but the witch was simply too distant most of the time for any real desire to form.

That left Dostan, who had the twin advantages of being both friendly enough to hold a comfortable conversation with once you got past his gruff exterior, and boasting the kind of physique she most enjoyed in a man. She'd been a little uncertain of how he would react to her approach, not wanting to compromise the one real friendship she'd managed to create here with a clumsy advance, but fortunately she'd read him correctly. Apparently where he came from direct approaches were the norm for such things, which was certainly a refreshing change from the delicate maneuverings often required by the strictures of proper behavior that the rigidly orthodox Mitran faith had laid down in most of Talirean society.

Their shins bumped against the edge of the bed, and with a low laugh Dostan disentangled himself from her arms and pushed her down onto the mattress. She lay there on her back, smiling up at him and enjoying the way his eyes roved across her body. It had been a long time since the insecurity of her teenage years, but even so it was always nice to be appreciated. Her smile only widened as she watched him reach up and remove his own shirt, revealing a broad chest covered with a faint network of scars.

 _Definitely should have done this sooner_ , she thought as she reached up and pulled him down on top of her.

-/-

The altar was a simple thing, little more than a simple block of dark stone cut from the ground and crowned with a pentagram wrought in brass. It had the look of any number of frontier chapels that she had seen in her career, spaces given over to worship in fortifications and settlements that could afford neither the space or expense to create anything truly spectacular for divine reverence. Still, it was enough to serve its purpose, and that was all that really mattered.

Clad in full armour, she knelt before the altar and bowed her head. Beside her, Timeon did the same, whatever hesitation he might have once felt in the face of an infernal shrine ground out of him by three months of relentless training and indoctrination. Like her, he wore armour, though of a lighter design that her full breastplate. They were embarking on a mission of war, after all, so being properly equipped was only appropriate.

Great braziers of hammered brass lined the edges of the small chamber, filled with magical flames that burned without fuel or smoke. The heat washed over them in waves, but though beads of sweat were already forming upon her brow, Mira made no remark or sign of discomfort. The devil standing nearby might take that amiss.

The outsider was perhaps seven foot tall and packed with wiry muscle, tendons like steel cables shifting beneath it's dark green skin with every motion, though it had adopted a hunched posture that made it appear slightly less bulky at first glance. It's eyes glowed with a faint yellow light, and every now and then a long tongue would poke out from between a maw full of curved fangs to taste the air. The sound of its breathing was faint but unmistakeable, a quiet rasp of the edge of hearing, and the air was filled with the scent of blood and spices.

If her studies had taught her correctly, this was a Hamatula, one of the Lesser Devils but still a fearsome hunter and warrior by any mortal standard. They were also known by the more common sobriquet of 'Barbed Devils', and it was easy to see why, for the creature was absolutely covered with a wide array of viciously sharp spikes that arose from just about every available joint and surface on its angular body. She had thought at first that they might be a purely defensive adaptation, but a few moments study had convinced her otherwise. They were weapons, every last one of them, and for all her training and experience she remained unsure how exactly one went about fighting something that could kill you with every inch of its anatomy.

Thorn had summoned the creature forth from the depths of Hell with little more than a word and a gesture, shattering the boundaries between worlds with concentrated will and divine might. That had been dramatic enough, but she was considerably more impressed by the way that the devil had taken one look at the priest and then bowed it's scaly head in deference. Thorn had still made the traditional offerings, of course, providing a bound victim in the form of a captured soldier that the devil had promptly ripped apart in a display of horrific violence, but Mira couldn't help but wonder at the strength and knowledge it must take to earn acknowledgement from something as fearsome as this... or stop herself from dwelling on how to acquire such power for herself one day.

"Bound in blood and tempered by pain and will, we elevate these worthy souls in service to the Lord of Hell." Thorn said in a deep and resonant voice, standing before the altar and conducting the ritual with the air of one who had done such things many times before. He was speaking in the Infernal tongue, twisting syllables never meant for mortal mouths rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. "Let this mark forever brand them as your servants, mighty Asmodeus, Prince of Sin, and let them be judged by their words and deeds before your pitiless gaze."

With that, Thorn picked up a small knife and bowl of purest silver from atop the altar, moving around the room to approach the waiting devil. The fiend growled, a low and unmatchably menacing sound, but even so extended one arm towards the priest as he approached. With a quick and economical motion, Thorn drew the knife along the gnarled skin, positioning the bowl underneath in order to make sure that he caught the dark blood that emerged in a steady trickle.

Once he had what he deemed to be enough, Thorn moved away from the devil and approached the two kneeling figures of his newest servants. There was an expression of almost paternal pride on his face as he dipped his fingers in the blood and reached out towards them. Mira had to force herself to remain motionless as the Cardinal touched her forehead, the touch of fiendish blood producing a faint burning sensation as it met her skin.

"Behold." He intoned softly, scribing the infernal pentagram of Asmodeus on her forehead with inhuman blood. "My Ninth is chosen. The Nessian Knot is forged."


	7. Act Two - First Assignment

Way of the Wicked, Chapter Seven

Three months. Three months she'd been here, confined within this manor house, miles away from any city or sign of real civilisation. Forbidden from venturing outside the grounds, carefully hidden from the ever-vigilant eyes of the Inquisition, more than once she'd found herself thinking of this place as just another prison. That she knew how inaccurate such an assessment was had not helped as much with the sensations of being trapped as she might have wished.

Still, it hadn't been all bad, far from it. She'd had fine food and drinks in abundance, servants to wait on her hand and foot, decent conversation and an enjoyable bed-mate in Dostan, and access to some of the best and most varied education

in Talingarde to pass the time. All things which others might have paid a small fortune for, bestowed upon her as a reward for her new loyalties. Even so, the enforced confinement had begun to chafe, and she had been growing steadily more restless for weeks.

All of which helped to explain the almost overpowering sense of anticipation that was driving her now. There had been no lessons for the last two days, the servants could be seen packing away anything that might be taken with them if this place was abandoned, and now Adrastus Thorn had summoned her to his office. Clearly, the endless waiting was at an end, and it was time for her to put her new abilities to use.

She moved along the corridor with a panther-like grace, reveling in the strength and power that flowed through her body and whispered in the back of her mind. It was a heady sensation, to know that the power of a god rested within your limbs, one that Mira doubted she would ever truly get tired of. Not that she was so foolish as to believe herself in possession of anything more than the merest sliver of Asmodeus' infernal might, but just as even brackish water would taste like sweet wine to parched lips, she had gone for so long without knowing the attention of a deity that even this faint regard tended to leave her in a euphoric haze if she was not careful.

It was a feeling that Adrastus Thorn had evidently recognised, for he had cautioned her about the dangers of over-estimated one's own capabilities even as he encouraged her to revel in them. Power was there to be used, after all, and cultivating an aura of seeming invincibility could be extremely useful when dealing with those easily impressed by such things, but all too many dark champions had fallen to their enemies after they allowed themselves to start believing in their own mystique. It was a fate that she was determined to avoid, but she had enough self-awareness to realise that those who had gone before her had probably possessed similar determination at first.

Her feeling of confident joy diminished somewhat when she saw Elise coming the other way down the corridor in front of her, having evidently just been speaking with the Cardinal herself. The witch smiled at the sight of her, a hard expression devoid of any real warmth or companionship, and Mira stifled a sigh as she realised that her fellow agent was unlikely to just keep on walking past without a word.

"Mirabelle, there you are. Going to see the Cardinal as well? I hope you haven't been waiting long." It was the type of opening typical of Elise, a subtle barb only lightly veiled by a friendly greeting. Personally, Mira doubted that the Cardinal's choice of which of them he should brief first reflected any real favour, but the merest possibility of such was enough for Elise to fashion into a verbal weapon.

"Elise." She replied, stopping in the corridor and finding her feet settling into the proper positioning for a dueling stance. "Your concern is noted, but unnecessary. I found other ways to occupy my time."

 _Like Dostan_ , her mind supplied, the fresh memory causing the edges of her lips to turn up into a smile. The foreign berserker had been able to read the signs as clearly as she did, recognising that the call of duty was soon to bring their time together to an end. It would not be a difficult parting, for they had known it would be a temporary affair at the start and had never formed any kind of emotional bond, but taking the time for one last embrace had seemed an appropriate decision none the less. The fact that it would infuriate Elise, whose interest in her team sometimes seemed to border on the possessive, was simply a bonus.

"I thought you would have learned by now." The witch responded, her eyes flashing with cold malice as she caught the implication. It was amazing how often such words could be applied to her behaviour and attitudes, to the point where Mira had begun to wonder whether Elise's magic was wintery because of her personality, or if her personality had been affected by long years in contact with such a primal source of power. "Dostan's loyalty to me cannot be broken, no matter how wide or how often you spread your legs for him."

Mira raised an eyebrow, deliberately folding her hands behind her back lest she be tempted to go for a sword. That was precisely the sort of comment that would lead to a duel if it had been voiced in any kind of proper society, or outright murder in less civilized environs. For a moment, both courses of action seemed almost overwhelming tempting, everything she had ever inherited from her upbringing demanding some kind of retaliation for such a blatant insult. Unfortunately, such action against a fellow agent was forbidden by the contract that they had both signed, and she had no intention of incurring the wrath of hell over such a minor incident.

Still, it was typical of Elise to frame things in that fashion. Mira didn't know how much of it was her foreign upbringing and how much was due to her innate personality, but she'd long since deduced that the witch seemed to view just about everything in such terms. As far as Elise was concerned, in the end everything came down to one simple truth; that the pursuit of power was the only thing which truly mattered. The type of power might vary, from magical to physical to political, but the value that Elise placed in it did not; which wouldn't be so much of a problem if she didn't tend to assume that everyone else thought like that as well.

"I'm not sleeping with your bodyguard for political advantage, Elise. I'm sleeping with him because I enjoy it." She said with deliberate lightness, aware that she could and probably _should_ end their little exchange there before it went any further but entirely unwilling to do so. "After all, there _are_ ways to command the loyalty of men without turning oneself into a whore. Perhaps you should look into them."

The temperature in the corridor dropped sharply, patterns of glistening frost unfolding on every surface as the two women studied each other, their breath steaming in the suddenly-frigid air. Small tendrils of arcane power began to gather around Elise's fingers, and in response Mira moved one of her hands to the hilt of her sword. For a long moment, neither of them moved, hesitating on the very brink of outright violence but unwilling to take that final step or accept the consequences that would come with it.

Then, Elise smiled, banishing the gathered energy with a flick of her fingers and returning something resembling a normal level of warmth to the area. "You know," she said in a conversational tone, "It's probably for the best that we are being assigned separate missions. I suspect that if the two of us were forced to share the same building for very much longer someone would end up dead."

"And wouldn't that be a shame?" Mira replied mildly, removing her own hand from the hilt of her sword. "Still, on that note, I should not keep the Cardinal waiting. If you will excuse me?"

"By all means."

The two of them inclined their heads to one another, and then continued on their way, each being careful not to look back at the other as they went. Even so, it was not until she had rounded the corner at the far end of the corridor and broken potential line of sight altogether that Mira was able to bring herself to finally relax.

 _Gods below. Three months in the same house as that colossal bitch is quite enough. Any more, and I might actually start to like her._

-/-

"Welcome, my child." Adrastus Thorn said in a voice that seemed almost supernaturally deep and resonant. "Your training is at an end. You have proven yourself worthy and I have taught you all that I can in the time available to us. Now, it is time for you to demonstrate your worth in your first mission."

Mira nodded, crossing the small office and settling herself into one of the chairs facing the Cardinal's desk. She momentarily regretted not bringing any way to make notes, but unless the mission was remarkably complicated she felt sure that she could remember the key points well enough. "Of course, my lord. I am eager to serve."

Thorn smiled warmly, but despite that his eyes were still cold and watchful, scrutinizing her every move and word in detail. "Your mission is war, my child. You will bring war to Talingarde."

Mira blinked, then nodded slowly. In truth, she had been expecting something a little less dramatic for her first assignment, a relatively minor task so that the Cardinal could assess her performance and her loyalties in the field, making sure that his existing assessment of her capabilities was correct before entrusting her with anything more serious. Still, if the mission was to be war, then she was definitely one of the better agents to carry it out. The Cardinals organization - the 'Knot of Thorns', as he called it - was comparatively small and carefully divided, no one operative allowed more than the absolutely minimum amount of knowledge necessary about their comrades for fear of having their secrecy compromised by a lucky servant of the Inquisition. She had therefore never met most of Thorn's other agents, but all things considered she would be surprised if any of them had more direct military experience than she did.

The real question then, was not whether she could perform such a task but whether she _would_. She'd been a soldier in the service of the crown, after all, one of reasonably high rank and reputation. She had dedicated most of her life towards protecting the people of Talingarde from the enemies that might wish to see them destroyed, to leading the men and women whose job it was to fight those enemies with her. Was she really willing to throw all of that aside, even after everything that had happened? Any war worthy of the name would by its very nature bring great suffering and strife to Talingarde, and would inevitably claim a great many lives before it was over. Could she really bring herself to unleash something like that upon her home?

Slowly, her hands tightened into fists, a cold sense of resolution settling into her mind as she considered the possibility at length. Of course she could. She wasn't an idiot, she'd known that something like this would be coming. Thorn had told her himself when she first swore herself to his service - Talingarde as it was had no place for either of them now. The brand on her arm made that one clear enough. The only way she would ever be able to take back what had been stolen from her was by breaking the current system apart and building a new one in its place, and the thought that she could do something like that without any kind of consequences for the people that lived within the current system was foolish at best. The only question would be whether or not the nation she forged from the ruins of the current one would be worth the price, and that was something that could only be judged in hindsight.

"I see." She said at last, aware that Thorn had been waiting for her response and likely knew what kinds of thoughts she had been considering while she sat there. "Not a task I had considered before, but I can do it. I presume you have more specific orders for me, sir?" _Now that you know I will not just reject the idea out of hand._

Thorn nodded, his smile one of understanding and approval. "Of course. You have two objectives, one simple and the other requiring somewhat more initiative on your part. Firstly, I need you to escort a shipment of weapons to the north, beyond the Watch Wall. There, you will meet with a Bugbear chieftain known as Sakkarot Fire-Axe. He is another of my agents, the Lord of the Avernian Knot, and with those weapons he will be able to unite the barbarous tribes of the north and arm the largest horde to come out of those forsaken lands in a century."

Quashing her sense of surprise at the idea that Thorn had somehow managed to recruit the services of a bugbear, never the most disciplined or loyal of creatures, Mira called upon her memories of the Wall and began to consider how such a thing might be done. Despite the name, the Watch Wall was not a single construction, for even with the best will in the world the country could never hope to muster enough men to stand watch over the entire border. Instead, a dozen fortresses guarded the major access routes into the kingdom from the North, preventing any major incursion from accessing the rich and largely defenseless lands to the south and mounting frequent patrols to make sure no raiding forces had ever slipped by through more minor routes.

"I'll need a ship." She said after a moment's thought. "If this shipment contains enough weapons to equip an army, then it will never make it into the north overland without being tracked and discovered. I would have to take it by sea, skirt the coast until we pass the border and travel inland down one of the great rivers that feeds Lake Tarik."

Thorn nodded. "Indeed, such was my assessment. Which is why there is a small dock near here that is currently playing host to the longship _Frosthamar_ , under the command of Captain Kargeld Odenkirk. The captain and his crew are all foreigners, holding no ties to Talingarde that might dissuade them from their task and well-used to smuggling illegal cargo past the fleets of many different nations. They will take you and the cargo north and see it delivered to Fire-Axe, who is making camp on the north shore of Lake Tarik."

The Cardinal paused for a moment before continuing. "Captain Odenkirk is also, it seems, both foolish and greedy. It is my belief that, having received final payment from me for this venture, he will attempt to sell you out to the military in exchange for further reward, before fleeing to somewhere he thinks I will never find him. You will therefore need to remain vigilant on your journey, and once it is concluded, dispose of the captain and his men. We can afford neither witnesses nor any evidence that might be recovered by a border patrol, but make sure to recover the payment from him before you destroy everything else. No sense in wasting the coin, and it can serve as your operational budget."

Mira nodded silently, though internally she had to wonder what kind of man would willingly betray someone like the Cardinal, or to be more specific would be foolish enough to believe they might get away with it. If the plan had involved removing Thorn as a threat she might be able to understand, but simply taking his money and ratting him out to the authorities hardly seemed likely to produce any kind of positive outcome. Was Odenkirk simply stupid, or did he know something she did not?

"Once the weapons are delivered, Odenkirk will deliver you to the southern shore of Lake Tarik, at which point his usefulness will have been expended. After that, you will make your way to the market town of Aldencross to begin your second task."

Reaching into one of the drawers on his desk, Thorn withdrew a folded piece of parchment and spread it out on the surface between them. Studying it, Mira realized that it was a map of the northern sections of Talingarde, focusing on the eastern end of the borderlands. Towns were marked as small icons connected by the thin lines that represented roads, while military establishments were denoted by a series of small stars. The Cardinal indicated one of those in particular, next to what seemed to be a bridge of some kind.

"The bugbears and their assorted allies are ferocious warriors, but poor siege engineers, which is why they have never successfully breached the Wall in any strength." He explained. "So you will open the way for them. I have selected the watch fortress Balentyne as your target. You are to infiltrate it and, using both your own knowledge of such fortifications and the skills I have imparted to you, inflict as much damage as you can in a practical timeframe, so as to weaken it in the face of the horde."

Mira considered the idea for a moment, then nodded. "That should be doable. The fortresses are designed to repel direct attacks, or perhaps the odd shadowy raider, not a sustained campaign of sabotage. So long as I am careful, chances are no one will see me coming."

There were reasons for that, of course, not least of which was the fact that the idea of a human helping a bugbear horde sack one of the watch fortresses was utterly incomprehensible to most Talireans, and not without reason. The shaggy monsters were unlikely to distinguish between a human that assisted them and one who stood against them, at least not quickly enough to help a hapless infiltrator caught in the path of one of their roving warbands. Did Thorn have a solution in mind for that, or was she just expected to handle it herself?

"Indeed." The Cardinal said, pleased with her confidence. "Once the fortress has fallen the bugbears will pour into the borderlands, and the local garrisons will be forced to meet them on the open field if they hope to preserve any of the settlements they are sworn to protect. Sakkarot is the most gifted and murderous bugbear of his generation, so I expect that any such battles will go... poorly for the brave defenders of Talingarde. Under the cover of that invasion, our real work will begin."

The priest laced his fingers together and regarded her for a moment. "As you can tell, this plan relies quite heavily on your own efforts. If the watch fortress is not weakened, it will likely repel any attack from the north. The commander is a paladin named Sir Thomas Havelyn, and whatever his other faults might be, he knows his craft well. Therefore, I want you to think carefully, and ask any questions that come to you. After all, there will not be much chance for consultations once you are underway."

Frowning slightly in thought, Mira went over the plan in her mind, picking it apart as quickly and thoroughly as she could in search of anything that might be missing. "You mentioned my operational budget is currently with Captain Odenkirk. Is there anything else I can expect by way of supplies or assistance?"

The Cardinal nodded, reaching for one of the nearby shelves and removing a small box, of the kind that might perhaps hold jewelry of some kind. He opened it, revealing a simple metal circlet resting on a bed of velvet, the iron stylized to resemble a ring of thorny branches woven together.

"Aldencross is a market town, so you should be able to secure most items of use there, but there will always be some that would raise questions. This iron circlet is a magical item, enchanted so as to enhance any effort you might make at disguising yourself. Simply think of how you wish to appear, and it will cover you in an illusion to that effect." He raised one finger in warning. "This is a tool, not a crutch, and has certain limitations. It can only make you appear human, or as something with a broadly similar body structure. Likewise, the illusion is just that - a figment of the senses. If you appear to be dressed in silk, but someone grasps your arm and feels chain mail, they will have discovered you. That said, so long as you give some thought to your use of it and remain careful, it should greatly aid any efforts at infiltration. There is another that I will provide for your assistant."

Smiling, Mira reached out and took the circlet, setting it on her head with a careful motion. Fortunately, closer inspection revealed that the iron was crafted in such a way as to avoid any of the small spikes being angled towards the wearer. A magical disguise, able to change the specific appearance of the wearer with a thought... yes, she could make good use of that. It also answered the second question she had thought of, about how she should reduce the risk of anyone on the Wall recognizing her. Balentyne was not her prior post, but officers and men were often traded between different stations as the needs of the garrison dictated, and it would be poor luck indeed for someone she knew from her old life to spot her. That left just one more major concern.

"It occurs to me," she said carefully, trying to word her query in just the right way so as to avoid sounded disobedient or overly doubtful, "that while a war with the bugbears might well serve to thin the ranks of our enemies and create numerous opportunities, it does still pose certain problems in its own right. For example... I do not think a world where half the northern territories are infested with murderous goblinoids is one I should wish to have a hand in ruling."

"Your concerns are noted." Thorn said simply. "While I cannot share the full details of the plan with field agents that might risk capture, rest assured that I am aware of the problem and have taken steps to address it. I have no interest in offering a shattered wreck of a country to Asmodeus, when there exists an option to bring his faith to a glorious and powerful nation that stands greater than anything ever seen before."

Well, there wasn't much else she could say in the face of that. The thought of unleashing such a scourge upon her homeland without knowing how it would be controlled and then turned back was not a comfortable one, but she had done distasteful things before in pursuit of her duty and ambition. This would simply be one more, and then she would simply have to trust that the Cardinal could handle the rest.

"Very well, my lord." She said at last, ruthlessly quashing the last vestiges of doubt and uncertainty that lurked at the back of her mind. "I believe I can handle the rest. How should I resume contact once the deed is done? Returning here would be difficult, even if you _were_ planning on remaining."

Nodding, Thorn once again reached into a drawer below the desk and produced a small amulet of red clay, which he passed across to her. She took it, studying the unusual iconography etched on the service - an Asmodean star, surrounded by a ring of thorny branches. Then she stowed it away in a pocket, making sure to choose one that was not full of items that might break it.

"Breaking this seal will alert me that you wish to make contact." Thorn said simply. "I will then send other agents to rendezvous with you and deliver further instructions. Success will of course be richly rewarded, while failure... well, I suspect you can guess what the penalty for that would be."

Mira nodded silently, suppressing a shiver. If there was one thing she had learned about the Cardinal over these past months, it was that he did not suffer fools or the incompetent. There was every possibility that taking her own life in the event of a failure would prove to be preferable to finding out what kind of punishment the dark priest had in store. Not that she would allow it to come to that, of course, but it was always useful to have an additional incentive to motivate her efforts.

Seeing that she understood, Thorn smiled and rose from his chair, moving over to a small table set aside in one corner of the office. Collecting the small jug and the pair of glasses waiting there, he poured a generous measure of dark red wine into each glass, before picking them up and returning to the desk.

"The mission you embark upon today is a holy one. The people of Talingarde have allowed themselves to believe they have seen the last of Mighty Asmodeus, that there is nothing to fear from the attentions of a defeated and fallen god. Together, we will remind them of the truth; there is no escape from the grasp of Hell."

He passed one of the glasses to Mira, who took it with an eager smile. "Let us drink to your success. To war."

The two glasses made a faint chime as they were brought together, and the wine was sweet upon the tongue. Her eyes blazing with a renewed purpose, Mira raised her glass and repeated the toast.

"To war."


	8. Act Three - Deception at Sea

**Act Three: Fire-Axe**

Way of the Wicked Chapter Eight

As ships went, the _Frosthamar_ was a good one. Mira would be the first to admit that she had only the most basic understanding of the shipwright's trade, but there were certain signs that even the most uneducated layman could spot when it came to quality. The way that the ship's keel cut cleanly through the water, for example, or the deceptive speed with which the coastline rolled past as it sailed north on its journey. It wasn't a new ship by any stretch of the imagination, the tell-tale signs of age and the wear it brought with it visible after even a brief inspection, which indicated that it had either been built to last or lovingly cared for over the years by someone who knew what he was doing. Probably both, which was reassuring in its own way - no one wanted to put to sea in a ship crewed by a lazy incompetent, not if they had any sense or desire to see tomorrow.

It was a pity, Mira reflected idly as she leaned on the side of the boat and watched the world roll past, that Captain Odenkirk wasn't a more reasonable type of man. She might not be a sailor, but she could still appreciate the value of a good ship and a good crew to go with it, and the _Frosthamar_ was both. Long and slim, with large sails and a surprisingly large cargo hold under the main deck, it was evidently built with fast travel and effective raiding in mind. Just about every major settlement of any importance in Talingarde was either on the coast or accessible by river, and that meant that the _Frosthamar_ could reach any of them with speed and efficiency, either delivering troops and supplies or carrying off anything valuable in the aftermath of a successful raid. She could think of any number of uses for such a ship when it came to pursuing a mission such as hers, and she did not doubt that Thorn could as well. It seemed something of a waste to eliminate the whole crew after their current job was over, but unfortunately the captain had not given her much choice in the matter.

Odenkirk, as it turned out, was an idiot. Not in a conventional sense, perhaps, for his eyes were still sharp and he could plot courses and do sums with as much skill and perception as any sailor, but she had a hard time finding any other word to accurately describe one ruled by their desires to the same extent that he was. As far as she could tell, the foreign sailor was one of those people who thought about everything in terms of personal and immediate gain, giving no thought to such things as principles or codes of conduct or even long-term consequences to their own health.

The extortion was just the most blatant example of that kind of behavior she had seen so far. Odenkirk had been perceptive enough to realize that whatever plan Adrastus Thorn was working on had a time constraint, likely to the point where he could not spare the time or the effort to find a replacement ship and captain should the _Frosthamar_ prove unviable. Using this, he had then demanded an additional payment of considerable size from the Cardinal in exchange for their current venture, without any kind of excuse or pretense to justify the greater expense beyond his own desires. He'd received it as well, a small box filled with what had to be some six thousand gold pieces being delivered to the ship along with the rest of the cargo, which had in turn promptly vanished inside the captain's cabin and never come out again.

While from one view the gambit had paid off, as far as she could tell Odenkirk simply hadn't thought about the matter any further beyond that point, making no plans for escaping the Cardinal's inevitable vengeance or taking any steps protect himself from the pair of trained murderers that had been sent along with the cargo. It was a kind of blind confidence that frankly beggared belief, and for the first few days she had been convinced that it had to have been some kind of ruse. No one was this stupid, surely, or so blind to the dangers of keeping what might be enemy agents so close. And yet, everything she had seen so far told her that this was precisely the case. Odenkirk simply didn't consider her a danger to himself or his crew, no matter how stupidly illogical such an attitude might be or how badly he was going to end up paying for it.

Which was not to say that he hadn't noticed her at all. Unconsciously, Mira found her hands tightening into fists as she remembered the utterly shameless way that the barbarian and his crew had leered at her when she had first come on board. She'd been expecting some attention, for that was practically an inevitability when a woman went anywhere near a collection of sailors denied shore leave for any length of time, but she'd been calibrating her expectations based on the typical reaction of a Talirean crew, who would have maintained at least a basic level of respect and professionalism. Sure, they would have looked, and perhaps made a comment or two, but she was well used to such behavior and it wasn't as if she wouldn't do exactly the same thing if one of them was suitably appealing. Odenkirk and his crew, however, had practically drooled whenever they looked at her, and while she did not speak their crude language it was rather obvious what they were saying to one another when they watched her. In the end it had taken a series of increasingly blatant gestures with her sword in order to cross the language barrier and encourage them to leave her alone.

On the upside, though, it made the idea of murdering them all at journey's end much more palatable.

It was a strange experience, traveling with someone that you were intending to kill. There wasn't a lot of space on the _Frosthamar_ , as the only cabin belonged to the captain and the cargo hold was absolutely packed with the crates full of arms and armour they were smuggling north, so by sheer necessity she had been forced to spend most of her time in close proximity with the crew. None of the sailors spoke more than a few words of the common tongue, which helped to make sure that she wouldn't end up developing unfortunate attachments to them that might complicate her assignment, and for the most part they were largely content to ignore her and Timeon completely as they went about their work. The isolation was a little uncomfortable, but she could cope with it on a temporary basis, and she'd found other ways to distract herself in the rolling countryside and conversations with the young squire.

Timeon, for his part, seemed to be taking the whole situation remarkably well. For the first few days after she'd convinced him to join her, she'd been convinced that he was just waiting for an opportunity to stick a knife in her back, but as the days and then the months rolled past he'd slowly abandoned those desires. Or at the very least, he hadn't taken advantage of the numerous opportunities their enforced proximity had presented, and after a while he'd apparently stopped even considering them. It would have been a strange and suspicious change of mind, were it not for the fact that she had seen the same sort of process take place numerous times before.

The training that they'd gone through under Thorn had been considerably more extreme than anything she'd ever experienced or even conceived of before, but from a psychological perspective it had much the same results as numerous other military training regimens. Stripped of all connections to the outside world and anything that might remind him of his previous life, pushed to the very edge of his capabilities and beyond in numerous different fields over endless weeks of repetitive training, Timeon had slowly bought into the ideology presented by his superiors and bonded with the people undergoing the training at his side. The intended result in most training programs was the creation of a sufficient level of unit cohesion and _esprit de corps_ , but when pared with a true and total isolation of the world outside and the building knowledge that every lesson and ritual moved you further from any possibility of acceptance by mainstream society, the overall effect had been considerably more enhanced.

Now, Timeon moved with a quiet deliberation, watching everything that transpired around him with a meticulous eye for detail and considering every word before he spoke. Thrust into a desperate situation made all the more terrifying by his own lack of comprehension, he had responded by developing an almost insatiable hunger for knowledge and understanding of all kinds. Many times she had found him secluded in the manor's library, pouring over old books of forgotten and forbidden lore, emerging to rest just long enough that his mind would not be dulled by the building fatigue. He had approached her for combat training, spoken with Cardinal Thorn on theological matters and somehow enticed Elise into sharing her insights into matters eldritch and arcane, all the while keeping up with the same level of training as the rest of them. It was impressive to watch, and every time she saw him she could not help but feel vindicated in her decision to spare his life. Service to the Alerion would have seen these virtues remaining forever buried, the young squire's full potential untapped no matter how long he lived, and that would have been a tremendous waste.

Of course, none of that meant that the young man was any better at handling sea voyages. He'd toughened it out for the first few days, as the _Frosthamar_ sailed down the length of the Varnyn river before turning north along the coast, but eventually the endless pitch and roll of the ship as it battled the coastal tides had forced him into retreat. Now he spent most of his time below the deck, silently concentrating on not throwing up all over the place and leaving Mira to pass the hours by watching the countryside roll by and contemplating her mission of murder.

At least the views were nice, if somewhat repetitive. Mile after mile of rolling fields, crossed by carefully maintained roads and punctuated by forests and small townships, there seemed little to really distinguish any part of it from the others. Were she looking at the territory on a map Mira had no doubt she would be easily able to divide the provinces up into the respective districts, probably even name which noble family or religious order held ownership of the lands themselves, but when viewed in person they all seemed pretty much the same. Certainly the common people that worked in the fields or fished off the coast in their small boats didn't seem to change much with the passing miles, each waving cheerfully to her and her ship in turn as she passed, but that hardly meant a thing. In most respects, the life of the average farmer in Talingarde had not substantially changed in generations. The name on their coins might change and the occasional law passed down from the distant monarchy would be put into effect or rescinded, but for the most part life in these sleepy little villages just carried on much as it always had.

She wasn't entirely sure if that reflected some fundamental strength or tragic weakness about the basic character of Talingarde.

The one exception to the monotonous routine had come after five days on the water, when they had passed the port city of Daveryn; third largest settlement in Talingarde and jewel of the eastern coast. Timeon had been in almost desperate favour of stopping there for some shore leave, or at least long enough to acquire the necessary herbs for a sea-sickness cure, but Odenkirk had overruled him. The burly blond barbarian had judged the risk of exposure too high, believing that the harbour-masters would want to inspect the ship's cargo the moment it pulled up at the dock and having no valid excuse to be hauling enough weapons to supply an army.

In truth, Mira had seriously considered arguing the point, no matter how much sense it made. The _Frosthamar_ had no bathing facilities, and the crew seemed to consider relieving themselves over the side whenever necessary to be the pinnacle of good hygiene, habits that she had likewise been forced to adopt through lack of any other real choice. Five days of living in such conditions was enough to turn her stomach, but in the end she had realized that there was simply no way to force Odenkirk into complying with her wishes that did not also risk jeopardizing the entire mission if he reacted poorly to the attempt. So, in the end she'd simply swallowed her objections, gritted her teeth and decided to tolerate the situation for a few days more. It wasn't as though this was a particularly challenging task, after all, just unpleasant, and she'd be damned if she failed her first assignment on account of mere squeamishness. Possibly literally.

Still, they were close to the border now, perhaps an hour's travel south of the fortress town of Estyllis that anchored the eastern end of the Watch Wall. Already the air was growing colder and the forests they had passed increasingly dominated by hardy firs and other northern breeds, and while winter's grasp had broken long enough ago that there was no ice clinging to the shoreline, the spray of the ocean was still bitingly cold when it touched exposed skin. She'd have to start wearing the the heavy fur cape in her pack soon, accepting the weight and bulk as a necessary trade for the life-preserving warmth it would bring.

Idly, she allowed her eyes to trail along the shoreline, studying the dozens of small harbors carved into the cliffs by the relentless pounding of the ocean waves. None of them showed the distinctive marks of having been expanded by human hands, which presumably meant that the coast here wasn't nearly rich enough in fish for any industrious folk to bother investing the effort to set up an operation. Likely any ships that passed through this region would expect to dock at Estyllis itself, where they could take on new supplies and sell their cargo to the reliable market represented by the garrison. The fortress had been here for centuries, after all, and there was always need for food and other supplies in a military outpost, one that would always receive a decent budget from the kingdom to purchase such things in exchange for keeping away the northern hordes that lurked in the untamed lands beyond. More than one merchant clan had done very well for itself in supplying such a steady market, using it as the reliable foundation that backed up more risky ventures elsewhere. Those clans were in turn patronized and supported by the noble families in exchange for quality wares, and the world kept on turning.

Her musings were interrupted rather abruptly at that point as her eyes alighted on the sea directly astern of the _Frosthamar_. There, almost concealed by the last traces of the morning mist, was another ship. Broad and sturdy compared to the lean frame of the foreign raider, it was still making excellent speed across the waves, driven forwards by a set of broad sails and what might be numerous sets of oars deployed out the sides. All of those features, however, came a distant second in importance compared to the large sunburst pattern stitched into her blue and white sails.

"Captain Odenkirk?" She called, her voice cutting clear through the background noise of the wind to reach the burly foreigner on the other side of the ship. Seeing that she had his attention, she pointed towards the stern. "We're being followed."

Frowning, the captain stomped across the deck towards her, his heavy cloak rippling gently as the strong wind ran invisible fingers through his hair. Without a moment's pause he stepped up onto the railing, placing one hand on the rigging to secure himself as he leaned out over the side and peered into the distance. He evidently saw the ship as well, because when he clambered back down a moment later his expression was thunderous and he was muttering a rapid stream of invective under his breath.

"She's seen us, sure as damnation." He growled, stomping over towards her with a dark look in his eyes. "And there's no way the _Frosthamar_ can outrun her loaded down like this. One look at our cargo and they'll know what we are - weapon smugglers."

Mira nodded absently, studying the approaching ship with a small frown on her face. Everything that the captain said was true, but that didn't make this a total disaster. Ships like this patrolled all of the waters around Talingarde, keeping an eye out for pirates and smugglers, so it was no surprise that they'd run into one. In truth, she was a little surprised that they'd managed to get this far without encountering anyone as it was, but while such good fortune was a blessing, she hadn't been intending to rely on it for the entire journey. Mitra helped those who helped themselves, she had always been taught, and it stood to reason that a similar principle applied to Asmodeus as well. Certainly she could not imagine the devil-god going out of his way to protect those who were so foolish as to take no precautions of their own.

"Leave this to me." She told the captain, and something in her tone evidently got through to him because he didn't immediately object to being given orders on his own ship. "Send someone to rouse my companion and then slow down when they give the order. I'll take care of the rest."

-/-

Captain Edward Sambryl was, by nature, a suspicious man. He was a doubter, a skeptic, the sort of man who was always looking for the hidden angle or concealed truth, perpetually convinced that there was more to any particular situation that what those involved happened to say. In many walks of life, this character trait would have been a considerable flaw, for mutual trust was the cornerstone of most personal and professional relationships and one that he was entirely incapable of constructing without some serious evidence to back it up. It was, he suspected, the reason why he had no wife and why only a few people could be counted on to think of him as a friend, though those who did would never find a firmer ally in all of Talingarde.

Fortunately, the hallowed ranks of the king's own military constabulary were one of the few places where a man such as himself could find a true home, and where superiors could be found with great experience at forging virtues from the flaws and vices of their underlings. In their wisdom, they had concluded that the young Edward Sambryl had a bright future ahead of him in the field of customs work, where his distrustful nature and keen eye for the uncomfortable truth would provide great assistance in the never-ending quest to crack down on smugglers and the generally lawless types that thronged the streets of Talingarde's ports.

Too many men and women seemed to believe that just because they had some quick wits and a few coins that they could circumvent the lawfully imposed taxes and regulations of the King, and for the past five years Captain Sambryl had been there to show them the error of their ways. If he was being totally honest, it was personal pleasure that drove him at least as much as patriotic duty and a general respect for the law and those who abided by it. It was just so _satisfying_ to see those criminals, many of whom seemed to think themselves untouchable by virtue of their rank or connections, brought to heel beneath the iron grip of the law and knowing that _he_ was, in large part, responsible for it.

Right now, his naturally suspicious nature was focused on the ship currently sneaking its way up the eastern coast towards the border, which matched no description of any vessel he knew to have lawful business in these waters. It was of foreign design, sat low in the water as though heavily laden, and on a course that would take it beyond the borders of the country and into the north where they were no settlements of any civilized race; all of which came together to form a very suspicious picture to the eyes of Edward Sambryl. So he'd given the relevant orders to his crew, a dozen experienced sailors who knew their trade better than he ever could, and sent his little patrol ship in pursuit.

 _The Blade of Saint Martius_ was not the largest or most heavily armed ship he had ever served upon, and the small crew far from the largest detachment ever placed under his command, but both were generally more than sufficient to get the job done. It was fast and maneuverable, able to catch any ship laden down with cargo or outrun anything that might be carrying raiders to prey upon the helpless villages all along the coastline, and that was all it needed to be. The navy of Talingarde was not one designed for extended patrols in the deep ocean or fighting wars with other seaborne powers around the world, but rather for defending the nation's own shoreline and making sure that it's laws were carefully enforced no matter where one might go. Anything more extensive would have been a considerable expense that the kingdom could not afford without good cause, but as far as Sambryl was concerned that was all to the better. A small navy formed of elite volunteers was infinitely preferable to a large one crewed by conscripted and untrustworthy labour, especially when they could count upon the blessings of Divine Mitra to even the odds between them and their nominally superior opponents in any serious confrontation.

Fortunately, it seemed that the ship he was pursuing was not going to attempt an escape, which would have been both foolishly futile and rather irritating for the crew and captain of the _Blade_ , all of whom were looking forwards to their next shore leave and less than eager to waste time and energy chasing some band of foreign smugglers around the northern coastline. Instead, their prey was furling its sails and slowly bleeding off momentum, angling to allow easy access for any boarding party that the coastal patrol ship might wish to send across.

"Ah, if only all smugglers were as cooperative as this lot, eh lads?" Sambryl called to his crew, all of whom laughed or made other signs of agreement as they brought their ship in on an intercept course. "Still, let's make it official. HEAVE TO IN THE NAME OF THE KING!"

It wasn't as if the crew on the other ship could have harboured any real doubt about the identity of their pursuers or what authority they claimed, not with the coast of arms stitched into their sails and displayed proudly overhead, but it was always best to be clear about these things. That was what distinguished the Talirean navy from the Pirates and assorted scum upon which they preyed, after all, the full and legal sanction of the monarchy to carry out their duties and protect the citizens of Talingarde. Allowing people to forget that led them to forget other things, such as the due respect owed to the law of the land and the utter futility of causing trouble within a Talirean port, all of which tended to create enormous headaches for the poor souls charged with protecting those territories from such unwise courses of action.

As the target ship slowed to a halt and the _Blade_ pulled alongside, Sambryl took the opportunity to inspect it in greater detail. He didn't recognize the design, though the intended purpose of it was fairly obvious, but he could at least make out the name painted along the side in careful letters - _Frosthamar_. An unusual name by the standards of Talingarde, but he'd long since stopped expecting foreigners to name their ships with anything resembling a sensible policy of designations, so he simply marked it down in his log-book with a small shake of the head. That done, he strapped his longsword to his belt and crossed the deck towards the gangplank, which even now was being extended to form a crude bridge between the two ships.

Four of his men fell in behind him as he went, moving with the ease of long familiarity with such duties and carrying their own collection of small swords and lightweight spears. Around them, the other sailors stayed at their posts, each carefully resting a hand on their bows and making sure that a decent supply of arrows was close at hand. He might have preferred heavy armament, but the nature of the [i]Blade[/i]'s duties made that somewhat difficult, as did the simple matter of limited storage space for anything resembling an arsenal. Besides, virtually no-one aboard ship tended to wear armour heavier than a chain shirt in any case, for fear that their supposed protection would drag them down into the depths if they happened to fall over the side. Ship to ship boarding actions, then, tended to end in small bursts of extremely bloody violence if any kind of trouble broke out, rather than the more protracted engagements one could expect on the land.

Walking with as much confidence and dignity as he could muster, Captain Sambryl climbed onto the small plank and strode across onto the other ship, sweeping his eyes back and forth along its length as he studied the half-dozen men that apparently made up the crew. As expected they were obvious foreigners, Ulfen if he was not mistaken, their predominately blond hair bound up into dreadlocks or thick beards and their tough woolen clothes cut to show off the densely packed muscles of their arms. They glared at him with sullen resentment as he came on board, and Sambryl found one of his hands coming to rest on the hilt of his sword in instinctive response.

"Who's in charge here?" He demanded brusquely, refusing to be intimidated by the aura of silent threat that seemed to hang around these men like a shroud. In response, one of them stepped forwards, a great bear of a man with scarred arms who carried an axe in one negligent grip. The brute looked like he was about to say something, before pausing in consideration and then shooting a look off to his left.

"That would be me, captain."

At the sound of the voice, low and melodious, Sambryl turned his head to follow the direction of the barbarian's gaze. At that point, he had to fight his natural reaction with considerable difficulty to prevent his jaw from dropping open like some drunken simpleton, as he took in the sight of the seventh member of the _Frosthamar's_ crew.

She was, in a word, beautiful; a tall and slender woman with hair the color of liquid gold and eyes as blue as sapphire, a picture of loveliness that seemed quite out of place on such a barbaric ship sailing so far away from civilization. He might have thought her some noblewoman on a misguided pleasure cruise, were it not for the glitter of chain-mail under her dark blue cloak and the distinctive silver and sapphire medallion that hung from her neck.

"I am Inquisitor Rosanna DuMark, sworn agent in service to Mitra the Fire Undying." The woman said with a kind of calm confidence that he had only before encountered among the truly veteran members of the military. "Captain Odenkirk and his men are here under my authority."

Instinctively, Sambryl found himself straightening to attention, just about fighting down the urge to salute the woman as he would a superior officer. Agents of the Inquisition were technically outside of the normal chain of command, empowered by royal warrant and divine decree to step beyond the constraints of normal procedure in order to hunt down enemies of the faith and those who would traffic with them. Technically, she held no authority over him here, but in practice only a true fool would gainsay a member of the Inquisition on anything but the most critical of grounds and expect to enjoy a long and happy life in the aftermath.

"I... see." He said, picking his words carefully and cursing his own poor fortune. It occurred to him that he could have always just ignored the ship when he first caught sight of it and thus avoided all of this trouble entirely, but that would have been a dereliction of duty beyond anything he could have possibly tolerated. Now he just had to work on making sure that he survived the results of his diligence. "My apologies, my lady, but I was not aware that any agents of the church were operating in this region."

The woman smiled, a small and knowing tilt to her lips that somehow suggested that she could see right past his facade of calm composure to the building panic underneath. For all he knew she could - Inquisitors were renowned for being perceptive readers of their fellow man, often to the point where it began to appear outright supernatural, so maybe she really was reading his mind.

"There is no reason why you should have. And, having no grounds for dismissing this ship from your concern, I appreciate you could not have simply allowed it to pass by unmarked." DuMark said simply, evidently pretending not to notice the way that Sambryl's shoulders sagged in quiet relief. "My companion and I are here as something of a first response team, traveling ahead of any official delegation to investigate some worrying rumors that have reached the ears of the Church in this area."

Following her sideways glance, Sambryl noted the presence of another Talirean standing at the base of the ship's mast. This one was a man, dressed in much the same manner as the blond woman but carrying himself with none of her showy confidence. Instead, he simply stood there in complete silence, watching the proceedings with a kind of cold detachment that would send a shiver up the spine of any god-fearing man or woman in Talingarde. Captain Sambryl was suddenly quite sure that drawing the particular attention of such a man would be a distinctly unwise and possibly outright painful act, and so turned his attention back to the woman with almost indecent haste.

"Rumours, my lady? What kind?" He said, then winced as he realized how that might have sounded. "Not that I doubt you, of course, or that I would want you to reveal anything that your duty demands be kept secret, it's just..."

"Your own duty demands you be aware of any potential threats within your jurisdiction. I understand, Captain, and your diligence does you credit." The Inquisitor said smoothly, her expression undeniably a smile now, though at least it wasn't a mocking one. "Broadly speaking, we have reason to believe that the bugbear tribes beyond the Wall have begun to gather together, driven by what might be some kind of outside influence. At the moment there is little more than unsubstantiated rumors to support this belief, so I have come north in an attempt to verify them one way or another. Commandeering the _Frosthamar_ was an extension of that mission, as it is built for traveling down rivers as well as along the coast and can carry enough supplies for an extended mission, both of which are necessary if I want to make a proper search of the region."

"I... had heard rumors that the creatures in the north were massing." Sambryl admitted, thinking furiously as he factored what he knew into the briefing that he had just been given. Such rumours were not uncommon in the borderlands, and often had some truth to them, for it was hardly an infrequent occurrence that some ambitious warlord would gather a few tribes together and attempt to mount a raid into the richer lands to the south. The Watch Wall had always stopped such attempts in the past, so like everyone else he had generally dismissed these particular concerns as being just another part of the regular routine, but if there was some kind of external factor involved as well that could very well change things. "Do you think there's a serious threat, milady?"

The Lady DuMark seemed to consider that for a long moment, then shook her head. "Honestly, Captain, I think I may be jumping at shadows. The watch wall has withstood the hostility from the north for centuries and has never faltered, and will likely do the same again tomorrow. But as it is, my duty will not allow me to dismiss the threat without at least making some effort to verify it, so now I am here."

Sambryl winced in silent sympathy. The prospect of being stuck for weeks or even months on a ship like this, surrounded by foreign barbarians and isolated in the cold and hostile wastelands of the northern regions was not a pleasant one. But faith and duty were rarely considerate of one's own personal comfort, and he could appreciate the strong values which would drive this woman to put herself through such an ordeal in the name of protecting the people of Talingarde. It was not something he could ever imagine doing himself, but he was grateful to have such vigilant protectors watching over him and his family none the less.

"Now, Captain, I trust my answers are satisfactory?" DuMark asked with a raised eyebrow. "You have done your duty in inspecting this ship, and I believe I have given you enough to construct a full report to your own superiors, but I would rather not waste any more time with such delays if it could be avoided."

For a moment, Sambryl hesitated, his suspicious mind coming to the fore once again. Could he really believe that this woman was who she said that she was? She looked the part, it was true, and her story made a certain kind of sense, but she hadn't actually shown him any kind of official documentation to back it all up, and that was upsetting on a professional level. Of course, depending on how quickly this little mission had been thrown together there might not actually _be_ any paperwork, and even if there was he couldn't honestly say he'd be able to distinguish one kind of inquisitorial authority from another. The Church used its own series of rules and protocols for such matters, and he had no idea what kind of document he should really expect to be given if her mission was a genuine one.

And if it was _not_ genuine... well, that was fairly easy to verify as well. He had a name and a physical description, as well as the name of her ship and where she was headed. A return to port would allow him to pass those details on to the local authorities and whichever representative of the Church was responsible for the region, and they in turn could verify the truth of the information for themselves. If she was lying, well... technically the penalty for impersonating a member of the Inquisition was the same as claiming to be any other kind of clergy, but in practice the ruthless enforcers of holy doctrine took an exceptionally dim view of anyone trying to subvert their authority for their own ends. Only a supreme fool would claim to be an Inquisitor when they were not, and whatever else he might think of the Lady DuMark, he could not truthfully call her a fool even within the privacy of his own head.

"Of course, ma'am." He said at last, nodding to her and the barbaric captain who stood nearby. "You can be about your business. Thank you for your cooperation."

With that, he turned on his heel and marched back to the _Blade_ , offering up a silent prayer of thanks to Mitra that everything seemed to have worked out for the better.

-/-

Hidden beneath the disguise offered by her circlet, Mira stood at the stern of the [i]Frosthamar[/i] and watched the Talirean patrol boat pull away. The adrenaline was making her heart pound violently in her chest, and it required a conscious effort to restrain the impulse towards half-mad laughter. She'd known on an intellectual level that her training and magical equipment would likely prove more than sufficient to escape any problems with official scrutiny, but it was quite another thing to actually put that theory into practice and see it work so flawlessly.

Smiling, she turned away and began to march back down the length of the ship towards the prow, allowing the illusionary disguise to fade away with little more than a thought. Odenkirk watched her approach with an indefinable look in his eye, as though he was slowly coming to realize just who and what it was that he had allowed to come aboard his ship. She nodded to him, allowing her voice to carry the same level of casual authority she had used when speaking to the naval officer, and had the distinct pleasure of watching Odenkirk react to it with the same level of instinctive obedience as the Talirean had.

"Get us moving, Captain. We've got some time to make up."


	9. Act Three - Into the North

Way of the Wicked Chapter Nine

The iceberg was roughly the size of a castle, and Mira glared at it with the sense of bitter hatred she reserved for those enemies entirely beyond her ability to defeat. It was not a long list, grown shorter than ever upon her promotion to Captain of the Wall and the violent experience that came with it, but that it existed at all galled her. So much of her fundamental personality, her entire worldview in fact, rested upon the central concept that there was no such thing as an unbeatable opponent. It might require skill or knowledge or cunning or power or even sheer bloody-minded stubbornness, but victory should always be at least a remote possibility. That the universe conspired to occasionally create situations where her success or failure was entirely beyond her own control or even ability to influence seemed like the greatest possible injustice that the gods could ever choose to inflict upon a mortal woman.

Right now, that prospect of inevitable failure was given form in the massive field of ice that surrounded them. This far north, the grip of winter could remain locked around the throat of the world for years at a time, bringing with it a bone-deep chill that could freeze the oceans and adorn the mountains with shining glaciers that stretched for miles without end. Sometimes those great formations of ice would fracture and break apart, spawning dozens of lesser icebergs that none the less dominated wide stretches of the nearby ocean and posed a terrible hazard to navigation. Any one of the slowly drifting edifices could smash the _Frosthamar_ to kindling with even the lightest brush, and if that happened all aboard would be doomed to an early grave, for there was no hope of swimming to safety in waters as cold and dark as these.

This was the domain of Kargeld Odenkirk and his crew, and as Mira watched them work through the faint clouds raised by her own breathing she had to admit that they knew their trade well. The grizzled captain stalked back and forth across the deck, eyes narrowed in concentration as he surveyed the surrounding area and barked orders to his sailors in tones of uncompromising demand. The sailors themselves moved with a will, doubtless every bit as aware of their peril as Mira was but blessed with the ability to do something that might influence their own chances of survival. They swarmed backwards and forwards, adjusting ropes and correcting instruments in a display of silent efficiency that reminded the knight of the small clockwork toy her uncle had once shown her. The outer skin had been trite and forgettable, some kind of small fluffy rodent that was doubtless meant to be endearing, but it was the mechanical innards that had fascinated her then and still stuck in her memories all these years later; a complicated symphony of parts, each with its own role to fulfill and reliant upon the others for both cause and effect, individually worthless but brought together by intelligent design in service to a greater goal.

This was why Thorn had insisted upon hiring a foreign crew, she had realized. Though she had never been able to bring herself to question his choice outright, she had to admit to some doubts about the choice of using such temperamental mercenaries in such a potentially critical information when there were numerous Talirean crews that could surely be convinced to assist in one way or another. But Talirean ships did not come this far north as a rule, and thus their crews would have lacked the experience necessary to navigate this shifting labyrinth of deadly ice and reach their destination safely, never mind doing so in anything resembling a decent timeframe. Similarly, popular understanding held that a man operating under the effects of an enchantment spell was duller of wit than one free to act according to his own will, and since even such a slight disadvantage could prove fatal in a situation like this it had not been feasible to simply bind Odenkirk to quiet obedience with sorcerous means.

She spared a moment to privately lament the Captain's singularly poor choice in negotiating tactics once more. The current display taking place before her eyes confirmed that the foreigner possessed enough skill and experience to be rightly called a true expert at his craft, and the prospect of cutting down an expert rather than finding some way to turn their skills to her own advantage was a distinctly unappealing one. Still, there was little choice in the matter - Thorn had commanded that he die for his foolishness and disrespect, and unless she wished to be marked for a similar fate Mira would be the one to carry out the sentence. That was just how the world had to be, assuming of course that the captain didn't misjudge one of the complex maneuvers needed to navigate the ice field and see them all dead first. Still, that grim fate did not need to be enacted for another few days at least, so for now she was content to cross her arms and watch, her face schooled to immobility in an attempt to prevent any sign that might betray her nervousness and concern.

Besides, it wasn't as though this was the first time she had risked death on this journey. She had thought her official mission of escorting the weapons to the north was no more than a cover, some excuse Thorn had cooked up in order to justify placing his assassins aboard the _Frosthamar_ , but it had rapidly transpired that such was not the case. After evading the attentions of the patrol boat and deceiving its captain they had headed north with all possible speed, crossing the border barely an hour later, and from that very moment things had taken a turn for the worse. Just about every step of their journey had been beset by further difficulties, ranging from simple bad weather to probing raids by a group of Tritons, until it almost felt as though the very land itself was turning against them.

On the Wall, one of the more persistent forms of superstition among the rank and file was the existence of some kind of sentient mind in the northern wilderness, a nameless and faceless threat that gazed upon the fertile lands to the south with immortal malice. She had always dismissed such beliefs in the past; the land beyond their borders was to be watched and respected, of course, and possibly one day conquered by the loyal armies of the crown, but feared as a living thing? Such a thought had seemed ridiculous to her in those days. Now, though, the idea seemed all too plausible. Certainly it was hard to come up with another explanation for the storm that had struck them not two days hence, where the ice that coated the rigging had come alive to devour the flesh of the living with gleaming fangs and the wind had laughed with a cruel voice as it chilled them down to the bone.

They'd lost one of the crew that night, a grown man simply vanishing into the darkness and never reappearing, no sign of his fate save for a discarded sword embedded in the deck. The metal had been frozen to the point of becoming brittle, and had shattered into fragments the moment one of the other sailors had tried to remove it. The others had proposed turning back at that point, stricken with fear at the thought of something similar happening to them and falling back on the superstitious nature that often characterized sailors, and it had taken all of her charm and forceful personality to instill them with the discipline required to continue. She'd found an unexpected ally in Odenkirk that day, the burly captain refusing to allow something so petty as a demon-storm to dissuade him from his mission. She thought he might have been driven by pride, but it was just as possible that he had seen the look in her eyes and correctly deduced the potential consequences for turning back in defiance of her orders.

She would die before she allowed her mission here to fail because of the weakness of others. And before she died, she would kill. The crew of the _Frosthamar_ were all dead men in any case, so it wasn't as though it particularly mattered if she had to kill a couple of them to provide the rest with proper motivation, not in the long run at least. In the short term spilling their blood might prove troublesome, not least of which being the fact that some of them would probably try to return the favour with interest on their own terms. She didn't fear them, but it seemed pointless to take the risk if she did not have to, and she _did_ need at least a few of them to remain alive in order to pilot the ship. It had not proven necessary to follow through with that silent threat, but enough of them had evidently caught it anyway that they had begun giving her as wide a berth as possible in the pursuit of their duties.

The deck pitched beneath her feet as the _Frosthamar_ swung around in another sharp turn, and a moment later Mira heard a wave of excited and relieved chatter breaking out from the crew. Following their gaze, it took her a moment to realize that the open channel of dark water in front of them was not simply another temporary passage through the ice, but instead the open mouth of one of the great northern rivers that they had been seeking. There was supposed to be several in this area, all of which ran for miles across country before merging together into one great current, which in turn eventually fed into the great inland sea of Lake Tarik near the centre of the northern continent. This one seemed to be relatively free of ice, the waters flowing far too swiftly to allow any such obstructions to form or remain in place for long, and she grinned like a shark at the sight of it.

 _Not long now._

-/-

The wind howled like a wounded beast, driving endless flurries of snow and ice against the hard stone slopes of the mountain in an endless assault that would have rendered the entire region lethally dangerous to any human unwise enough to wander up here. The footing was not especially stable at the best of times, and the driving winds and low visibility would all but guarantee an accident, even the smallest of which could easily prove fatal upon these unforgiving slopes. But the Naatanuk were not human, and conditions that would slay an unprotected man in seconds were little more than a nuisance to the _true_ children of the north.

Arak moved across the slopes with a steady, confident gait, his quadrupedal form and sizable bulk imparting him with great stability in the face of even the strongest winds. Great slabs of muscle rippled like small waves beneath his furry hide, and claws the size of daggers left small divots in the rocks as he moved over them. If he was attempting to elude pursuit such a trail would have been a serious problem, but there was nothing up here that he feared enough to find the effort involved in concealing his movements worthwhile. Besides, with the driving wind tugging at his fur with every motion it was far more likely that any prospective hunter would be using scent to track him down rather than simple tracks, and there was little enough he could do to stop them anyway. In the forests further down the slopes he would have options, but he had taken to avoiding such territory of late, preferring to haunt the upper slopes save for those rare occasions where he needed to descend and hunt once more.

Ahead of him, the hard rock of the mountain dropped away suddenly into a sheer gorge, far too wide to safely cross and deep enough to threaten even one of his immense constitution should he happen to fall. The great bear considered his options for a moment and then turned right, following the gorge along as his glittering eyes studied the sheer slopes in search of a way down. It wasn't that he needed to get to the other side, particularly, so much that such was the direction he had chosen to wander today and he had no intentions of giving up on his plans so easily.

It was either that or turn around and head back home, and he was quite sure that he would rather avoid such a course of action for as long as possible. If he left the mountain the endless drumming would be impossible to ignore, the relentless pounding of blood in his veins forming a irresistible call to war that he would no longer even wish to avoid. Whatever magic it was that the shamans used to summon the tribes to their side did not function quite so well in the mountains, though precisely why the mighty stone peaks would have such an effect he could not even begin to guess. Arak was a hunter, not a smith or sorcerer, and he was more concerned with practical matters that such esoteric concepts of magical theory. The stone drowned out the call, and that was enough for him.

It wasn't entirely effective, though. The call still came to him in his dreams, an endless drumming that sounded in time with the beat of his own heart and brought with it visions of death and conquest. He had only to close his eyes for longer than a moment and he would begin to see them again, the burning axe and the field of green, begin to smell the stench of burning wood and spilled blood upon the empty breeze.

It wasn't that he was particularly opposed to the idea of going to war, really. Indeed in many ways such a pursuit would be rather enjoyable, for there were few things more enjoyable to one gifted with razor sharp claws and several hundred kilos of muscle than putting such lethal gifts to good use. No, his objection was rather more centered around the fact that there was only one form of enemy that could be worth calling together so many forces in order to oppose, and that said enemy was one he had precisely no intention of attempting to fight. The human fortresses to the south were crude and ugly things, wrought from wood and stone rather than the sculpted ice and metal of his people, but they were still imposing bulwarks none the less. Would-be-warlords had been mounting assaults against them for generations, and for generations all thry had managed to achieve was to leave a pile of bodies on the edges of human territory to serve as warning for anyone else who might consider such a course in any way viable. He had yet to hear anything that indicated this 'Fire-Axe' would do any better, and honestly he thought there was a decent chance the arrogant bugbear would do worse.

His musings were interrupted, however, by a most unusual sight. At the bottom of the gorge ran a river, one of the great tributaries that filled the inland sea some miles behind him, and on that river was a ship. Twitching his nose in curiosity, Arak halted his relentless plodding and peered down at it, trying to determine what such a strange construction was doing here. It was a human vessel, he recognized that immediately, for it had none of the cruel sleekness of the Ice Elves in its design and none of the other natives of the north had much use for water-going vessels, but it wasn't bearing the blue and white colors he normally associated with the southern kingdoms. Had there been a change of regime while he wasn't looking? It was possible, but even if that was the case why would the humans send a ship up here? They had no settlements north of their border and no real reason to come here. Unless...

The polar bear twisted his head around to gaze in the direction that the ship was traveling. As he thought, it was the same direction that the song in his blood was calling him to move in, directly towards the northern shores of the inland sea where the gathering horde was known to be making camp. Had the humans heard about it and sent one of their ships to investigate the rumours? No, that couldn't be right - it wasn't coming from the right direction, and it didn't look like a military vessel so much as a cargo ship. Did the Fire-Axe count human allies among the ranks of his followers, then? That _was_ unusual, particularly if they hailed from the southern lands that would be doubtless threatened by any potential invasion. And if that was the case, would it make any difference to the Fire-Axe's chances of success?

Nose twitching, Arak sat back on his haunches and drummed one claw on the stone next to him. He would have to think about this.

-/-

"Would you look at that..."

Timeon's voice was filled with awe, but there was also rather more fear there than was entirely appropriate for someone of his station. Even so, Mira was prepared to cut him some slack on this particular occasion, for it was only natural to be at least a little afraid when confronted with something like this. Indeed, she was having some difficulty controlling the frantic beating of her own heart as she stood on the deck of the _Frosthamar_ and watched the northern edge of Lake Tarik come ever closer, as every passing moment also brought them nearer to the camp of Sakkarot Fire-Axe.

Of all the races that inhabited the north, the bugbears were among the most feared and dangerous. Distant cousins of the small and scrawny breed that most people thought of when you said 'goblins', the average bugbear was essentially six foot or more of tightly packed muscle and matted fur, gifted with a natural cunning and grasp of stealth that made them nightmarishly difficult foes to face, especially at night where their superior vision and instinctive grasp of stealth could be put to the best use. They were raiders for the most part, fond of launching quick and devastating strikes against their foes before seizing whatever they could carry and retreating before a proper response could be organized. The one saving grace that the defenders of humanity had when facing them was that the bugbear love of cruelty and violence did not incline them towards gathering in large groups or fighting with any kind of military precision. Even the largest parties she had faced in her time as a Captain on the wall had numbered in the hundreds at most.

If she did not miss her guess, there were currently something in the region of eight _thousand_ bugbears gathered on the northern shore of Lake Tarik.

It was a concentration of force greater than anything she had ever seen before, enough monsters gathered in one place that it almost made the forest look like it was moving. The smoke from hundreds of cooking fires marked the pristine sky, and even from here Mira could hear the rhythmic pounding of drums as whole segments of the horde lost themselves in bestial celebration. Nor were the bugbears alone, for among the sprawling throng she could make out representatives of several different races. Here a small band of goblins scampered between the legs of their larger cousins, there a unit of Naatanuk applied blue war paint to their faces with careful solemnity. She could even see the towering forms of what could only be giants pacing back and forth in the distance, utterly oblivious to the tiny forms clustered around their feet but brought here to join the horde by means she could not even begin to guess at.

And at the edge of it all was a small jetty of crudely hammered wood sticking out into the water, awaiting their arrival.

"You cannot _possibly_ be serious." Odenkirk growled, stalking across the deck towards her and gesturing angrily to the waiting throng. "I'm not going anywhere near that lot. They'll eat us alive the moment we come within reach!"

Slowly, Mira turned to face him, raising one eyebrow. "I am quite serious, captain." She said in a level voice. "You were hired to deliver the cargo to that dock, and I have no intention of coming all this way only to turn around now."

The foreigner glared at her, gritting his teeth and all but trembling with rage. "Thorn didn't say anything about this. I thought I was supplying mercenaries or pirates, not _monsters_."

"There's a lot of things that Thorn did not tell you." Mira replied flatly, one hand coming to rest on the hilt of her sword. "That doesn't mean you can disobey him without consequence. The leader of that horde is expecting our arrival, and that means we have some degree of safe passage, provided that we do our jobs quickly and do not display _fear_. Now, is that something you can do, or should I cut your head from your shoulders and bring this ship into dock myself?"

For a long moment, the two of them stared each-other down, snarling rage pitted against icy-cold disdain. In the end, it was Odenkirk who blinked first, and the captain turned away with a muffled curse and began gesturing orders to his crew. Mira watched him go, then turned back to the horde in order to hide the smile on her face. Still, one look at that monstrous collection was enough to banish the amusement from her mind, and she frowned thoughtfully.

 _So. How_ _ **am**_ _I going to keep them from eating us all alive?_


	10. Act Three - Meeting Fire-Axe

Way of the Wicked Chapter 10

The boat slid in next to the crude dock with little fanfare, jolting slightly as it came to a halt. Before it had even finished moving Mira had disembarked, vaulting over the side with a sword in her hand and her cloak billowing out behind her. The crudely hammered planks of the dock creaked slightly as she landed on them, then again a moment later as Timeon followed her. Together, the two of them strode down the small pier and onto the shoreline, moving with speed and confidence to present an image of strength to anyone that might be watching.

There hadn't been much time to come up with a plan, barely a handful of minutes passing between their first glimpse of the horde and their arrival at the dock, but personally she doubted that having more time to consider her options would have really helped all that much. The situation was set rather firmly by factors entirely outside of her control, and there were only so many ways she could compensate for that. At the very least, she was a human in a place where humans were not welcome, and any interaction with the bugbears would be irrevocably tainted by that fact, even if she _could_ somehow hide her instinctive reaction when confronted by creatures she had thought of as enemies all of her adult life. She was an outsider here, and that was a dangerous thing to be.

The solution? Be _more_ dangerous. The tribes of the north knew not to underestimate human soldiers even as they despised them, for the men and women of the Watch garrisons had faced them down and emerged victorious an uncountable number of times over the years. That history gave her the seeds of a reputation, one that she could build upon with the proper conduct until even the most belligerent members of the horde hesitated to attack her on sight. Thus she came with sword bared and armor worn, moving with confidence and purpose and allowing no trace of fear to influence her movements or expression, her strengths on display and her weaknesses carefully hidden away. It was a weak and flimsy shield, perhaps, but it was all that she had for the moment and thus would have to suffice.

Their arrival was drawing attention, of course, for even if the bugbears were too confident and disorganized to post sentries simple chance would still lead many of them to catch sight of the human ship as it approached the dock. From there, curiosity had drawn many of the observers to wander closer, dozens or even hundreds of shaggy-furred monsters gathering around to survey the scene with their glittering red eyes. The sight of humans on the ship drew a chorus of growls, sounds which only intensified as Mira and Timeon advanced onto the shoreline, so many different voices coming together to express their disapproval and gathering hostility. Still, they had not attacked just yet, and she took that as a good sign.

"Where is the Fire-Axe?" She said in a clear voice, coming to a stop a few paces onto the land and sweeping her gaze across the gathering crowds. "I have a delivery for him."

To most of them, her words were completely alien, demands delivered in a foreign tongue that shared nothing in common with the one language they knew how to speak. Such incomprehension might tempt the unwary to assume the listeners too stupid to understand simple concepts, but Mira was well aware of how unwise it would be to underestimate the minds behind those bestial faces. Indeed, several of them had evidently taken the time to learn how to understand the words of their ancient enemies, and it was one of those that stepped forward now.

"Who wants to know?" The bugbear, a great brute covered in pitch black fur, demanded in a fierce tone. He carried a club that was little more than a branch torn from some tree and hewn crudely into shape, but the muscles that packed his arms and torso indicated that even such a simple weapon could be put to viciously effective use if he had a mind to.

"My name is Mira." She replied, opting to leave off all of the titles and honorifics she might be able to lay claim to so as to avoid confusing the matter. "The warlord is expecting me."

The bugbear laughed, a dark and unpleasant sound that was swiftly echoed by the swelling throng around him, then smiled in a way that exposed a mouthful of yellow-tinged fangs. "Maybe he is, little human, but he didn't say anything about it. So what's to stop us from flaying the skin from your pretty bones and taking your cargo for ourselves?"

Mira took a moment to offer up a silent prayer of thanks to Asmodeus for gifting her with a talkative opponent. By stepping forwards and engaging her like this, the bugbear had made this into a personal confrontation between the two of them, rather than just leaving her as a lone figure facing down a vast and hungry mob. This, she could handle, though she was distinctly aware that even the slightest show of hesitation or doubt would signal her weakness to the others and lead to more of them joining in on the 'fun'. So she returned his smile, a cold and unfriendly thing that exposed all of her teeth in one of the more primal expressions of intimidation around, then reversed the sword in her hand and slid it back into its sheathe.

"You are welcome to try." She replied, spreading her arms wide in silent invitation and fighting down the urge to laugh at the look of stunned incomprehension on the beast's face. "Bring it on. I'll go easy on you - no sword, just my bare hands." A raised eyebrow and another smile, this one positively predatory with vicious amusement. "Unless you're too busy shitting yourself in fear, of course."

Even if they couldn't all understand her words, there was no mistaking the challenge or insult in her actions and posture, and the surrounding horde laughed once again. Something dark and terrible flashed in the eyes of the bugbear confronting her as he realized what she had done. Her fearless display was mocking and belittling him in the eyes of all those watching, and such cruel amusement appealed to the bugbear's strangely sadistic sense of humor. She hadn't exactly won them over so much as pushed them towards a kind of neutrality, but that was more than enough for her purposes, and it left the bugbear in question with only one real option if he wanted to regain the initiative or retain any kind of standing among the ranks of his fellow monsters.

The barbarian let out a deep and menacing roar, spraying the ground with spittle and bits of half-decayed meat dislodged from between his fangs, and then sprang forwards in a headlong charge. The club in his hand made a low whistling noise as it was swung through the air, and before he had even taken a step Mira could see what the beast was intending to do; a single, straightforward attack aimed at crushing her skull and bringing a swift end to this fight. The instinctive response was to retreat or dodge in the face of an offensive such as that, but such a move could all too easily be interpreted as a weakness by those watching, something which she absolutely could not afford.

Instead she stepped forward to meet him, timing her move carefully so that she reached him just as the club was at the highest part of its swing and therefore entirely unable to be brought around for any kind of defensive effort. Her fist, small and frail compared to his but sheathed in steel and driven by considerable force, shot forwards like a thunderbolt and shattered the bugbear's nose with a grisly cracking noise. The monster howled in pain and staggered back, club falling free from hands suddenly numb with shock, but she wasn't finished yet. Instead, she seized him by the throat in an iron grip and squeezed, cutting off the roar of pain with painful abruptness. Then, with every eye locked upon her and every breath held in anticipation, she called upon the unholy power burning inside of her and _pushed_.

She had heard stories of the spectacular and miraculous powers that Mitra bestowed upon his Paladins. The shining warriors of the light were said to be able to cure even the most lethal of wounds with the lightest touch, channeling the restorative power of the Beneficent Sun through their bodies to staunch bleeding, mend bonds and even purge disease from the bodies of their patients. She did not know whether that was true, though the sheer frequency and consistency of the stories suggested that there was at least some measure of fact backing it all up, but it was abundantly clear that Asmodeus had not bestowed similar blessings upon her. The Prince of Hell evidently did not desire his champions to be viewed as bringers of mercy and healers of the sick, but as Knights of slaughter and some of the most terrible weapons at his command. So it was that when she drew upon the infernal energy that flowed through her veins and forced it along her limbs in the most basic application of power imaginable, it was not healing light that crossed from her body into her foe but rather pure, destructive might.

The bugbear thrashed and screamed in her grip, the sounds muffled by the unyielding pressure of her hand around his throat as flames the color of old blood erupted from her hand and ignited the fur that covered his body. Wounds opened all along his torso as though invisible foes were driving blades into his vulnerable flesh, and gradually the bugbear's frantic movements slowed and became more sluggish as the endless wrath of hell drained all of the energy from his battered frame. A moment later Mira opened her hand, and watched her adversary fall in a broken heap at her feet.

For a long moment there was nothing but silence in the gathered throng, broken only by the muffled sobbing noises coming from the animal at her feet, and as Mira swept a challenging glare along the ranks of the horde the overwhelming majority flinched and would not meet her gaze. The majority, but by no means all. With an angry roar, two more bugbears stepped forwards, hefting their crude weapons and advancing towards her with fierce hatred in their gleaming eyes. Sighing, Mira placed one hand on the hilt of her sword, sliding the blade free in a single smooth motion as these newest adversaries began to advance. Evidently she would have to repeat the demonstration if she wanted to avoid any further trouble down the road; irritating, but not impossible...

" **Hold**."

That one word, imbued with more malice and authority than anything she had ever heard before, struck the bugbear ranks like a physical blow. Every last one of the monsters froze for a moment as the command reached them, then scrambled aside with desperate haste, clearing a path through the middle of their number with a speed and precision that would not have been out of place on a military parade ground.

Along that path came the single largest and most imposing bugbear Mira had ever laid eyes upon. Easily seven foot tall and absurdly broad across the shoulders, what little of the beast's fur that was visible to the eye was the colour of darkest night, while the rest was hidden from view by a suit of battered plate armour that would have been less out of place on a mounted knight. In truth, Mira realized that it probably _had_ belonged to a questing knight at some point, a trophy ripped from the carcass of a defeated enemy and put to better use by a victor that bore more scars than anyone or anything she had seen or even heard of before. It might have looked ridiculous, like a child wearing borrowed clothes without any understanding of what they meant or where they had come from, but the bugbear managed to make the battered plate look almost regal on his broad frame, as though he were a king moving through the ranks of his courtiers rather than one more beast among thousands.

The warlord moved through the ranks of his horde with a steady, unhurried gait, looking eyes with the two new aggressors in a burning gaze that had them almost tripping over themselves in their haste to retreat. Then, as though finally deigning to take note of her presence, he turned his attention upon her.

"Who sent you?" Demanded Sakkarot Fire-Axe, for it could be no other, speaking the common tongue with the same easy confidence as one born to it. The weapon from which he took his name, a great two-handed axe taller than some men, rested against his broad shoulder. Mira had seen magical weapons before, but those blades had always seemed proud and honourable somehow, living relics that exemplified the virtues of those meant to wield them. The axe by contrast was a massive and unsubtle thing, it's razor-sharp edge gleaming with violent promise and the faintest flickers of infernal fire visible beneath the shining surface of the metal. She could hardly imagine what such a weapon would do to one unfortunate enough to be struck by it.

"Adrastus Thorn." She said simply, once again choosing to leave off the titles for simplicity and secrecy both. She highly doubted that there was anyone within earshot that would even understand the significance of 'Cardinal', but discretion was a good habit to get into, and besides you never knew.

At her reply Sakkarot grinned fiercely, his blood-red eyes glittering with dark joy. "Then you are welcome here." He said, before turning to regard the rest of the horde and raising his voice into a commanding shout. " **These humans are my guests! If any harm them, I will eat your hearts!** "

Without a moment's pause he strode over to the dock, where the increasingly nervous members of Odenkirk's crew had begun unloading the cargo as quickly as discretely as they possibly could. The nearest crate was a sturdy construction of wood and metal, but it splintered and burst apart under a single strike from Sakkarot's massive fist, exposing the gleaming contents for all to see.

" **Behold**!" He roared, drawing forth a cruelly serrated sword and throwing it to a nearby bugbear, who previously had only held a simple wooden spear. " **They bring us STEEL!** "

Once more the horde cried out, thousands of bestial throats roaring with a single voice, but where before they had been driven by hatred and malice, this time the cries were closer to wild cheers. The sound washed over Mira in a wave, something in the very core of her being drowning in quiet cold as the faint stirrings of instinctive fear blossomed into a howling storm. That was a noise that held nothing but death for her and her kind, said her innermost thoughts, and while she ruthlessly crushed down the fear a moment later she could not banish it entirely.

All around her, larger and more senior bugbears moved forwards to coordinate the delivery, shepherding their underlings into some semblance of order with a chorus of ferocious growls and threatening gestures. Under their experience eyes a crude system of distribution was set up, chains of monstrous warriors forming to pass the weapons out among the horde. As she watched, what had been a disorganized mob armed with wood and stone was slowly transformed into a true army, thousands of ferocious warriors taking up weapons and shields of finest steel, all bearing the single emblem of a burning axe.

Moving back to the ship, Timeon at her back like a loyal shadow, Mira found somewhere out of the way and hid herself there, trying not to think about the terror she had just helped to create.

-/-

Outside, the celebration was in full swing, thousands of bugbear warriors and hundreds of auxiliaries giving themselves over to wild jubilation. Trees had been felled to provide more wood for the numerous fires, and now the air was thick with showers of embers and the scent of roasting pork. The sound of rough laughter echoed through the night, rising and falling like the waves of the distant ocean, and every now and then the distinctive ring of steel on steel would sound as eager warriors tested their latest gifts against one another in bloody practice bouts.

Bowing her head as she entered the large tent at the centre of the encampment, Mira allowed the thick hide of the entrance flap to drop down behind her, hiding the outside world from view and reducing the raucous sound of the feast to something more manageable. Still clad in her armour, for no matter how grateful the barbarians might seem she knew better than to appear vulnerable in their eyes, she stepped forwards and cast her gaze around the interior of the tent with some interest. You could tell a lot about a man by the state of his personal quarters, and while she wasn't sure if the same principles applied to a bugbear warlord she felt safe in assuming there were at least some common elements. From what she could tell Sakkarot was a surprisingly disciplined individual even by human standards, which made him something close to a freak of nature among the barbaric bugbear tribes. Everything in his personal quarters was neatly squared away in its assigned place, and there was relatively little on display that did not serve some practical purpose rather than simple pleasure.

The warlord himself had entered the tent ahead of her and immediately crossed to a small chest on the far side, willingly exposing his back to her and the entrance as though he was entirely unafraid of any possible assassin. Then again, perhaps he was right to be so confident; she did not intend him any harm, and even if she did there was no certainty that she would succeed, for the warlord was evidently a fearsome warrior in his own right even before you factored in the hundreds of savage warriors no more than a shout away.

With a grunt Sakkarot extracted a small bottle from within the chest, along with a pair of simple metal cups. He placed them atop a small table near the centre of the tent, then took a seat on the collection of furs that evidently served as a bed, gesturing for her to take the small stool on the far side of him. Curious, she did so, carefully setting her sword to one side where it would not get in the way but could still be quickly seized if she had good cause.

"My thanks for the delivery." Sakkarot said in an even tone, reaching forward to uncork the bottle and pouring a generous measure of some clear liquid into each cup. "The Naanatuk are fine smiths, but relatively few have joined my cause, and their artisans would never consent to mass produce weapons for the rank and file."

Raising an eyebrow, Mira picked up one of the cups but did not drink from it just yet. "You are welcome, though I was merely the escort. It was Thorn's command that gathered the shipment and sent it north."

"But he is not here and you are, so I shall thank you in his stead." Sakkarot replied, raising the cup to his lips and taking a drink. Content that such a gesture meant it was likely not poisoned, Mira did likewise, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the alcohol was of fine quality rather than the crude swill she had feared. "I have little enough contact with other members of the organization as it is, so I shall make the most of each encounter."

"Hmm. If you will forgive me for saying so, but I am surprised to find a bugbear serving as one of Thorn's agents in the first place."

" _Burabar_." Sakkarot said flatly. "'Bugbear' is what the humans call us, and it is a name that many have adopted with spiteful pride, but we remain our own people with our own ways. The name we give ourselves is 'Burabar', and I would have you use it when speaking of my people in my presence."

He waited for her to nod in acceptance before continuing. "That said, you are correct. Most of Thorn's agents are, as I understand it, human. Some are devil-kind, but those are the minority. Of course, I have only met a small fraction of those who serve him, and as far as most of my people know or care I have no dealings with them at all. But this army would not follow a human south, so Thorn chose me to command them and otherwise keeps his aid covert."

Mira nodded slowly. "I can understand why. Though I must wonder what those warriors of yours will think of _my_ presence here. I am quite clearly here to aid you, and unless they believe I crafted all of those weapons myself it seems obvious that I am not acting alone either."

Sakkarot shrugged, taking another mouthful of his drink before answering. "Most will come up with their own answers, especially once I make it clear that I feel no need to provide the details myself. Some will think you a shapeshifter or otherwise in disguise, others will believe you are a foreigner without any personal stake in the conflicts to come, and many simply will not care at all. I would be surprised if any deduced your true heritage and purpose... which brings me to the main reason I asked you here."

The bugbear hunched forwards, staring at her with burning red eyes that gleamed with curiosity. "You are, quite frankly, a traitor to your own kind. You have to know that once Balentyne falls and my horde pours through the gate that we will slaughter Talireans by the thousand. And yet... I see no regret in your eyes. Tell me, how can this be?"

Surprised by the question, and the insightful mind that must have come up with it, Mira sat back and considered her answer for a long moment. There was no doubt that Sakkarot was correct - if he lead this force south, even if she failed in her mission and the Wall stood strong in his path, more than a few soldiers would lose their lives in the battle. If she succeeded and opened the gates, then far more would perish as they were forced to wage war without the benefit of the defensive fortifications to protect them. And yet... she didn't care. She knew that those facts were undeniable, that by any measure what she was intending to do qualified as an immensely serious crime, but the guilt and doubt she should be feeling at such a concept simply wasn't there. Had it ever been? She did not know.

"There was a time..." She said slowly, staring into her cup as she swirled the alcohol around inside gently, "when my family ruled Talingarde. The human regions at least. It was one of my ancestors that built the Watch Wall in the first place, and for hundreds of years we ruled wisely and kept the people safe and happy. Even after the Darians usurped our rule and took the throne we served loyally and with distinction - I personally commanded troops on the Wall for much of my career."

She set the cup down and with her free hand unstrapped her vambrace, before rolling up the sleeve to expose the 'F' brand burned into her skin there. It was faded and mostly healed by now, but the scar it left behind would never go away. "Despite that, the nation I served so loyally abandoned me. I was stripped of all my honour and titles, thrown in a cell like a common criminal and sentenced to die, for no reason other than to make a point about the costs of defying even the most minor rules passed down by our 'royalty'."

She looked up, meeting the gaze of the barbaric warlord who was rapidly proving to be rather more than a simple barbarian. "That is why I feel no remorse. I love the country that raised me, and I dream of what it could be... but I no longer care if it has to bleed first."

For a long moment the warlord was silent, his thoughts hidden behind a face as alien to her as that of any demon. Then he reached up and unhooked one of the straps holding his breastplate in place, pulling it aside to reveal his broad chest. "We all have our scars."

Sakkarot's torso was a network of old wounds and minor scars, but there were some that stood out far more clearly than the rest. One was a deep slash that crossed his entire chest from left to right, evidently delivered by some kind of oversized knife many years ago. It had healed, but the bugbear's fur had not grown back across the scar tissue, making it obvious where the wound had once been. All around it were a series of lesser scars, less deep but still serious and obviously inflicted with deliberate care. They formed a distinctive pattern when taken as a whole, though it took her a moment of study before she could place it. It was an Asmodean Star, the sacred symbol of Hell scribed into the warlord's body in his own blood and pain. As signs of piety went, she supposed that was a pretty impressive one.

After a moment's thought, she snorted and picked up her cup once again. "I propose a toast." She said dryly, raising the cup high. "To scars, and the lessons they have taught us."

Sakkarot laughed in turn, a rumbling belly-laugh that seemed more genuine and joyful than anything she could hear from outside the tent. He raised his own cup, and they brought them together with a dull _clank_. "To our scars. May we never forget them."

Smiling, Mira tilted her head back and poured the remainder of her cup straight down her throat, enjoying the faint burning sensation as the strong alcohol entered her system. Once the last drops were gone she set the cup down again, more forcefully this time. "It seems the Cardinal has a habit of collecting wounded soldiers and giving them a new lease on life." She said thoughtfully. "I wonder what kind of scars _he_ bears."

Sakkarot shrugged, then moved to refill the cups. "Who knows? I know little about him, and even less about human culture in general. I _can_ tell you that Asmodeus was not his first God, though. There was a time when he revered Mitra just like all the rest of his family, though why he turned his back on the sun I couldn't say."

Mira accepted the refill silently, pondering the new information that Sakkarot had given her. The idea that Thorn was a fallen priest had not occurred to her before, but looking back it certainly made a fair degree of sense. He'd certainly displayed more knowledge of how the Mitran faith worked than anyone she had ever known outside of the priesthood, and some of his comments about the church had hinted at a decidedly _personal_ element to his antipathy. What had led him to break that faith, then? Had he lost someone, had his faith shattered in a single moment of calamity, or had it been a more gradual process of erosion? She didn't know, and that worried her in some way - knowing why your superior did what he did was an important survival skill in any organisation, especially one as dangerous as theirs, but despite all the time they had spent together Thorn's motives remained a mystery.

"Interesting." She said at last. "I did not know that. Perhaps I'll ask him about it after the mission is over..."

"Speaking of which," Sakkarot grunted, "we should cover what is going to happen in relation to that."

Faced with the prospect of more immediately relevant information, Mira cleared her mind of all distracting thoughts and focused her attention upon the bugbear once more. "True enough. To start with... how long am I likely to have to accomplish my goals? I know that keeping an army in the field indefinitely is all but impossible."

Sakkarot nodded grimly. "Indeed. Tomorrow, you must depart - my patronage protects you to some degree, but it will never be truly safe for you here. I will keep the army encamped in this location for another week, gathering the remaining tribes to my banner, and then I will march. It will take perhaps a week to move the army to the staging area I have identified, a hidden valley perhaps an hour's travel north of Balentyne. There we will wait for your signal."

He took another drink of the clear alcohol, looking thoughtful. "The horde will not rest easy, so close to the enemy but denied the chance of combat. I can hold it together for a time, but after... say another two weeks I expect desertions and squabbling to start making a serious impact on my combat ability. In total, then, you will have a month to infiltrate and destroy Balentyne."

He reached over to a small box positioned next to his bed, and from within produced a small signal rocket carefully wrapped in leather. Mira had seen such things before, but they were rarely used - typically such devices were used to pass simple emergency signals to all garrisons within range. Firing that into the air above Balentyne would almost certainly create a signal visible for many miles in all directions.

"Can you do this?" Sakkarot said suddenly, his voice urgent and his gaze intent. "In one month, can you do what no-one has ever achieved, and break the Watch Wall?"

Mira smiled coldly, reaching out and taking he rocket from him before stowing it in one of her pouches. "Yes, I can. I served on the Wall for years, with an officer's schooling and a commanders perspective. I know how the fortress will seek to defeat your assault, and that means I will know precisely what to do to stop it from succeeding."

Sakkarot seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded. "Very well, I will trust in your judgement. If you were not our best choice, Thorn would not have sent you."

He sat back and raised his cup once again. "Now, it has been far too long since I have had the pleasure of some actual conversation. Tell me, how did you find your training?"

Smiling, Mira raised her own glass and began to explain. It was good, she thought, to know that you were working with a professional.


	11. Act Three - The Price of Greed

Way of the Wicked Chapter Eleven

For a mile in every direction, bugbears lay in slumbering heaps. Glutted on roasted pork, flush with the promise of impending bloodshed and plied with enough alcohol to fill a small lake, the horde had lost itself in riotous celebration until the early hours of the morning, and now was paying the price for it. Here and there a warrior stirred, those of stronger constitution than their kin or simply those intelligent enough to resist the urge to indulge to their uttermost, but for the most part the sprawling camp lay still. It was far from silent however, as the rasping snores of thousands of bugbears filled the air like a rumbling waterfall, while the combined stench of meat, blood and fur was enough to form an almost-solid miasma that lay over the whole scene like a thick blanket.

Mira stole her way through the disordered throng, placing each footstep with care so as not to awaken the doubtlessly foul-tempered beasts that slumbered nearby. She had remained in Sakkarot's tent throughout the night, a fact that would have doubtless inspired rumours in the crude minds of many savages, pleased to find a source of intelligent conversation even in the midst of such a barbarous throng. And with the conversation had come the alcohol, an endless supply of it that had eventually rendered the both of them thoroughly legless and more open than might ever have otherwise been the case. It was a pastime that would have doubtless struck many as deeply foolish or at least nonsensical, but to Mira's mind it made perfect sense. You could learn a lot about someone by seeing what they were like when they were drunk, and establishing bonds of companionship and understanding with the leader of this horde might very well serve her extremely well in the days and weeks to come. So long as she was careful to keep a supply of alchemically created antidote to hand, so that she might return to sobriety with speed if the situation called for it, there was little to no harm in pursuing such a course and much to be potentially gained.

Of course, she was also neither arrogant nor deluded enough to mistake the baser elements of her own motivations for anything more advanced. On some level, getting roaringly drunk was something that she saw as an end in and of itself. It had been this way for as long as she could remember, a fact that had caused her more conservative family members no small amount of distress. Her teenage years had been marked with an excess of such disgraceful activities, as she exercised the opportunities granted to her by social station and wealth alike to satiate her own desires, indulging in wine and good food and the companionship of similarly uninhibited individuals. After her parents had died, an event she still did not like to think of, those relatives had seized the opportunity to pressure her into taking her vows of military service earlier than otherwise planned, in the hopes that such discipline would straighten her out to some degree.

It was not a plan that had ever been destined for much success, for it was one built on a fundamental misunderstanding of her character. Mira enjoyed indulging her passions and held a collection of vices to impress even the most jaded soul, but they did not rule her. It was the main lesson that her Father - and even now, she could not think of him by name, for he would always be Father to her - had managed to impart to his daughter before passing from the world; the key to successful indulgence was, paradoxically, _moderation_. Too much of a good thing would turn even the sweetest pleasure into the foulest poison, but knowing how to pace yourself and how to counter the worst side-effects of your indulgences would lead to pleasure that could be extended for _years_ without regret.

Military life, therefore, had not ground that philosophy out of her so much as it had _emphasised_ it. Eat well, but keep up your exercise. Drink the night away, but be ready to stand your watch the next morning without complaint. Revel in the thrill of combat, the red-hot pulsing excitement of a blood-stained blade, but do not allow it to cloud your judgement and compromise your defenses. Live life to the fullest, but remember your duty. All of these lessons and more had she been taught, often by teachers unaware of the example they had been setting, and all of them she had committed to memory with the aid of a mind made keen by schooling and kept sharp by constant reinforcement.

It was, in truth, that element of her nature that had presented her with the most doubts when she truly sat back and contemplated what her new devotion to Asmodeus might demand of her. The reputation of the Pit was hardly one of ecstatic excess, the popular image of fire and iron far from comforting for one that might wish to take her pleasure between bouts of required duty. Would the Lord of Hell demand of her a life of grim asceticism in place of her previous extravagance? It was a change she could have made, she knew that without a doubt, a price that would have been paid willingly in exchange for the gift of her continued existence, but it would not have been a command she would have particularly relished obeying.

Fortunately, that had not proven necessary, as her studies into the philosophy and society of Hell had rapidly made clear. Asmodeus did not demand that all pleasure and satisfaction be surrendered before a soul could enter his service, merely that such things should be subordinate to his will and intentions, or even pressed into service in support of those aims. Mammon, the Argent Prince, embodied greed and the desire for material possessions in a way that she had never even thought possible before, while Belial was justly infamous throughout the planes for his lustful desires and seductive nature. That Asmodeus would go so far as to include both among the ranks of his Arch-Devils, even forging the Pale Kiss with his own hands, said much about how the Lord of Hell perceived the existence and pursuit of such impulses. She did not have to strangle her desires, merely ensure that they did not interfere with the pursuit of her mission.

Right now, that meant returning to the ship without further incident and getting underway before the sun rose any higher in the sky. The body of water that the horde camped by might be marked on official maps as Lake Tarik, but Mira was perfectly aware that in truth it was closer to an inland sea than anything so prosaic as a simple lake. The _Frosthamar_ would take most of the day to cross it's width already, a journey made longer by the need to avoid detection and deliver her and Timeon covertly to the far side without being immediately ambushed by a roving patrol of soldiers. If she failed to make it back in time and delayed the completion of the mission... well, in truth it would hardly have much in the way of a substantial impact of the overall plan, but it would make a poor impression on Lord Thorn all the same, and that was something she would very much prefer to avoid if possible.

She rounded the slumbering bulk of a frost giant in much the same way as one might go around a small hill, and at last came within sight of the shoreline. The _Frosthamar_ was still there, which was something of a relief, as she hadn't been entirely sure that Odenkirk's nerve would hold out long enough to remain docked for a night so close to such a collection of fearsome monsters. She'd given Timeon instruction not to allow the foreigner to sail off and abandon her here, but that didn't so much guarantee that her wishes would be followed such much as provide an incentive; Timeon had grown into a skilled and ruthless combatant under the gentle touch of Thorn's training, but that didn't necessarily make him the equal of six grown men in a fight.

As she approached the ship, clouds of smoke from the still-smoldering remains of the camp fires swirling around her like a cloak, she saw that Odenkirk had evidently set up a sentry rota. That he would do so was not a surprise, for the captain was evidently very attached to his ship and would do just about anything to avoid the possibility of her falling into the destructive hands of the bugbears, but she had not expected the man himself to take one of the watches personally. Yet there he was, wrapped in a thick cloak and holding his oversized axe, pushing himself to his feet as she approached the crude pier where the ship was docked.

"Finally." The captain grunted, looking her up and down. "I was beginning to think something had eaten you. Now we can get out of here."

Mira smiled faintly, striding into the dock and feeling the faint trembling of the wood underfoot as Odenkirk fell in behind her. "Anxious to leave, captain? It's not like you to shy from a confrontation."

Odenkirk simply snorted. "If those beasts decided they wanted to kill us, it wouldn't be a _confrontation_. We'd just die, and not quickly. So, yes, I want to leave, the sooner the better."

He was silent as the two of them reached the ship and stepped across the small gap onto the deck itself, only then mustering the will to speak once more. "Besides, I saw the thing that leads this horde. Big bastard, isn't he? But that's not nearly as bad as what I saw in his eyes." The captain ran one hand through his beard, a gesture she knew he tended to repeat when given reason to be nervous. "He was thinking. All the time, no matter where he was or what he was doing, you could see it in his eyes that he was plotting. That's just plain unsettling. Bugbears should not be _smart_."

Now Mira's faint expression became a full-sized smile, though she hid it from the captain by the simple expedient of moving across the deck and leaning on the rails at the far side, staring out over the lake. It was true what Odenkirk said; Sakkarot _was_ smart. Even if she hadn't spent most of the night talking with him, the simple fact of the matter was that no one managed to pull together an army like this without some kind of intelligence to work with. There were just too many factors to account for, too many things that needed to be done or monitored just in order to keep such a large force in one place for any length of time without it collapsing in utter disorder, never mind actually getting it moving and then leading it into battle. Even a human army of professional soldiers would have posed a severe logistical challenge to anyone trying to command them as a singular unit, and they had advantages of discipline and organisation that the bugbears simply did not possess.

Any soldier knew that a smart enemy was the very worst kind to fight, especially if that intellect was paired with physical brawn and an aggressive spirit. You couldn't rely on anything when facing an intelligent foe, for they could likely anticipate and adapt to your every move, which was why the element of surprise was often so utterly overwhelming in war. But no one in the Talirean military would be expecting to fight an intelligent opponent, because the commonly accepted wisdom was that the races of the north were nothing more than a collection of idiot barbarians, with the possible exceptions of the ice elves in their glittering cities on the coast. They would expect to be going into battle against a crude and uncivilized foe, one with no understanding or appreciation for proper tactics and military strategy, and for that hubris Sakkarot was going to punish them severely. Oh, they'd wise up in time, start treating their enemy with the respect that he deserved, but by that point it might very well be too late for it to make any real difference.

Still, those were considerations for the future. Right now she had a mission to complete, and some loose ends to tie up. So, still not turning around less Odenkirk see the satisfaction and malice in her eyes and somehow manage to correctly interpret it, she spoke.

"Just get us moving, captain. One more day, and then we will part ways, and you will no longer have to concern yourself with this island or the intelligent bugbears that threaten it."

-/-

The dagger, slim and sharpened to the point where it almost resembled a needle, slid neatly between the sailor's ribs and pierced his heart in a single smooth motion. The Norseman twitched and tried to cry out, but the leather-gloved hand that was wrapped around his jaw was quite effective at stifling any sound. He thrashed weakly, compelled by the most basic instincts to make some attempt at defending his life, then the strength left his limbs and he collapsed to the deck, the firm grasp of the hands guiding him down gently and without any fuss.

His face set in an expressionless mask, Timeon withdrew the dagger from his victim's back and used one of the sailor's sleeves to carefully wipe away the gore. In a distant part of his mind, he compared his own current mental state to the likely reaction he would have had to such a deed not even half a year ago, and marveled at the difference. Of course, six months ago he'd still been a loyal servant of Sir Balin and an aspiring knight of the realm, whereas now... well, now he was both more and less than that at the same time.

It was a strange thing, to witness the passing of your own damnation in the full and total knowledge of what was happening. He wasn't quite sure at what point his soul had finally become truly stained by the things that he had seen and done, if indeed corruption could truly be measured in such a binary fashion, but there was no doubt in his mind that it had happened at some point during the three months he had spent under Lord Thorn's tutelage. If he had to guess, it was probably around the time that he had stopped seeing his lessons as a necessary burden to bear and begun embracing them as the peerless opportunities that they were, but it was always possible that he was mixing up cause and effect in some fashion. After all, an eager appreciation for infernal theology, cold-hearted techniques of silent murder and the more lethal applications of certain chemicals was hardly the sort of trait one associated with the pure of heart.

It would have been easy to blame Thorn and Mirabelle for such things, condemning them for taking him away from everything he had ever known and then saturating his mind in such forbidden knowledge until it was inevitable that he finally broke, but shirking his own responsibility in such a fashion didn't sit right with him. His mother had always impressed upon him how important it was to be honest within the confines of your own mind, rather than allowing yourself to get caught up in delusion and the twisted perspectives that self-deception could inflict, and while he doubted she would have approved of how he had applied those lessons he'd held true to them all his life.

And the truth was, he had started to enjoy it. In the library of that mansion he had begun to appreciate why some men dedicated their lives to scholastic pursuits, and why every year or so one of them went too far and wound up on an inquisitor's pyre. There was a kind of satisfaction and joy to be found in the acquisition of knowledge that he had never even conceived of before, a feeling that only intensified when he began broaching rarer and more specialized topics, as though a world formerly drawn in black and white was slowly being illuminated with the glorious colours of increased understanding. It was a heady sensation far superior to the intoxicated haze brought about by his few experiments with alcohol, and he had swiftly learned that it could be achieved through many more sources that just humble book-learning.

Every time he perfected a draught, every time he snuck unnoticed past one of the servants or scored a point in the free-form spars that were part of the combat training, every time he acquired a new capability or proved his own worth he was rewarded with that same incredible rush. He'd resisted it for a week or two, vaguely recalled sermons about the dangers of self-gratification echoing through his mind, but in the end he'd come to the realization that all he was doing was making himself miserable for no apparent gain, and he'd had quite enough other troubles to occupy his mind without adding self-inflicted emotional torment to the pile.

He still didn't enjoy the killing, though, which brought him back to the corpse of the sailor currently lying at his feet. It had brought him no joy or satisfaction to take the man's life, and indeed if given the chance he would have preferred to spare him, but such was simply not an option. Lord Thorn had commanded that Odenkirk's crew be eliminated at the conclusion of their journey, and Lady Mirabelle agreed, so the possibility of doing otherwise had been removed and all that was left was the simple matter of execution. At least he could reward the man's service by making his end quick and painless, rather than drawing it out in some elaborate game or otherwise prolonging the suffering.

He thought about hiding the body, either among some of the nearby sailing equipment or through the simple expedient of tipping it over the side, but swiftly decided against it. Aside from Odenkirk there were only five members of his crew left, and he'd already dealt with one of those in the cargo hold belowdecks before coming up here to ambush this one. That left just three others for him to take care of tonight, and the risk of any of them stumbling across the body wasn't worth the extra time and effort it would take to mitigate it. Decided, he slid the dagger back into its sheath and left the body where it lay, moving back along the length of the ship in the direction of the prow.

It didn't take long to locate the other three sailors, all of whom were sitting in a circle on the deck playing some kind of complicated-looking game with dice and a series of small tokens. The sun had begun to set just as they'd come within sight of Lake Tarik's southern shores, and since neither Mira nor Timeon much fancied blundering around in an unfamiliar countryside in the dead of night they'd made the decision to spend one more night aboard the _Frosthamar_ before parting ways. That was the official excuse they'd used, though of course both their real reasons and the false motives they'd allowed the crew to pick up on had been somewhat different. It was a little distracting to think in so many layers all of the time, but the end result had proven to be worth the investment.

Fixing an inquisitive and vaguely amused smile on his face, Timeon moved out of the shadows and took a seat in the small ring that the sailors had formed, the nearest one shuffling sideways a bit to allow him room. He'd spent more time with them than his superior had over the course of the journey so far, enough to pick up the most rudimentary elements of their language and the general rules of the game they were currently playing, so they greeted him as something resembling a friend and made no move to raise their guards as he settled in beside them. One of them muttered a welcome, an expression he returned after studying the dice for a moment, before tilting his head towards the ship's line cabin and raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

That earned him a round of coarse, if subdued laughter, the sailor on his left making an obscene gesture with his free hand even as he picked up the dice and rolled them once again. That was the reason they thought that Timeon and his beautiful mistress had stayed on board for another night, for half an hour ago Mira had retreated in there with Odenkirk and had yet to emerge. The sailors were convinced that their large and intimidating captain had finally managed to seduce the beautiful warrior-woman they'd spent the last few weeks shuttling around, and were therefore currently overcome with amusement and jealousy both, whereas Timeon was quietly sure that the knight's subtle proposition had rather more to do with the chance to get Odenkirk away from his crew and out of armour without arousing suspicion.

Or perhaps she really had decided to bed him, intent on satisfying some strange curiosity before completing her assignment and cutting his throat. He couldn't pretend to entirely understand her actions and motivations, even after months of working by her side in a relationship that had occupied almost every waking hour. Every time he'd begun to think he had her figured out she would do something new and unexpected, and half the time he wasn't sure if it reflected some new aspect of her personality or was simple an expression of deliberate contrariness.

Either way, it didn't concern him, and beyond that he simply couldn't bring himself to care. It had been something of a surprise the first time he'd walked in on her and Dostan sharing a bed, but in the long run all it had really done was convince him that his new commander was every bit as human as he was, and not the fiery paragon of infernal might she sometimes seemed to be. He thought he preferred that option, for it was always nice to be able to relate to your teammates and commanders, and such common ground meant he already understood her better than he ever had Sir Balin.

One of these days, he might even be able to forgive her for murdering the pious knight in front of him. Not just yet though.

The sailor on his right laughed as his companion rolled a shockingly poor combination of dice, then smacked Timeon on the arm to indicate that the ex-squire should take a turn. Still smiling, Timeon nodded and plucked up the dice from where they lay and rolled them around in his hand, taking a moment to fix a plan of action in his mind before tossing them down on the deck. The sailors, all interested to see what his results would be leaned in, and as a result they were all staring directly at it when the small glass orb that Timeon had thrown with the dice struck the wooden deck and detonated.

He'd always had a love for alchemy, even if that passion had mostly been theoretical before Thorn had taken him in, and now his hobby was drawing fruit. The carefully chosen mixture of chemicals inside the capsule produced a bright flash when they reacted with one another, swiftly followed by a billowing cloud of smoke that engulfed the group in its choking embrace. Quite harmless in an absolute sense, the concoction still tended to produce a momentary blindness and disorientation in those exposed to it, and that could quite easily prove fatal in the right circumstances.

Even as he closed his eyes to prevent the flash from blinding him, Timeon was reaching for his belt, and by the time he heard the sharp _crack_ that indicated a successful detonation he already had steel in his hand. The knife flickered out with deadly precision, slicing straight through the exposed throat of the man on his left and drawing forth a vibrant arc of crimson blood. Not stopping to confirm the kill he reversed the knife and brought it back around, the cold steel producing a faint whistling noise as it cut through the cloud of smoke and then buried itself in the chest of the man to his right. He left it there, embedded it what was surely a mortal wound, already coiling his legs back under his torso and then throwing himself forwards through the smoke.

The final sailor had been sitting almost directly opposite him, rendered little more than a dark shape by the billowing smoke that was even now beginning to disperse from around them. He was rising to his feet, coughing and swearing but not yet understanding quite what was happening, and that made him an easy target. Timeon hit him in the gut, a headlong tackle that sent the two of them tumbling away across the deck in a tangle of limbs. Unprepared for the sudden violence of the maneuver, the sailor was unable to control his fall, and the back of his skull struck the deck with a dull _crunch_. It might have been a fatal wound on its own, given time, but Timeon was in no mood to take chances on such a topic. The disorientated and only half-conscious sailor barely even managed to put up any resistance as his killer drew another knife and opened his jugular with a short and simple motion, and the other two were already on the way out when he finished the job a moment later.

Breathing hard, though more from the sudden spike of adrenaline than any real exertion, Timeon carefully retrieved his blades and wiped them clean before returning them to their sheathes. He took a moment to check himself over for any injuries possibly sustained in the brief tussle, and once satisfied paused in consideration before scooping up the small pile of coins the sailors had been gambling with and adding them to his purse. That done, he straightened himself up and moved over towards the captain's cabin.

The door opened before he could get there, a fully-armored Mirabelle striding out onto the deck with her sword in one hand and a small chest tucked under the other arm. He couldn't see Odenkirk from here, but the knight seemed fairly relaxed and her face was marked with a few specks of dark red, so he decided he didn't really need or want to know more. Instead he simply straightened up as she approached and tossed off something resembling a laconic salute.

"Any problems?" Mira asked with a smile, glancing around the deck with a look of approval in her emerald eyes.

"None." He replied simply, trusting that the evidence would speak for itself in terms of further details. "We done here?"

"Yes. Load our supplies into one of the small fishing boats, then use the lamp oil to soak the decks. I take it you can rig up a fuse of some kind? Good. We'll burn this thing to the waterline and row ashore. Aldencross shouldn't be more than a couple of miles away, and maybe there I can at last get a fucking bath."


	12. Act Four - Welcome to Aldencross

**Act Four - Burning Balentyne**

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twelve

In her time as a Watch Captain, Mira had grown intimately familiar with a number of towns much like Aldencross. Although the string of fortresses that spanned the width of the country were the most famous aspect of the Wall, the truth was that they could never have survived without the network of trade routes and small settlements that sprang up behind them. A long-term garrison had substantial needs if the commanders hoped for it to remain even vaguely capable of repulsing an attack from the north, needs that could never be fulfilled exclusively by soldiers or satisfied by constant shipments from the major cities to the south. Food, equipment, fresh recruits and any number of pastimes designed to keep a man from going slowly insane during his long years of steadfast duty, all of these and more were constantly in demand by the newly constructed fortresses and their freshly installed garrisons. And to answer those demands, places like Aldencross had come into being.

It was a symbiotic relationship, of course. A long-term and thoroughly established garrison of decent size represented a sizable and above all _reliable_ customer base for any number of professions, and that was a thing almost beyond price to smaller guilds and ambitious independents alike. From there, it was a simple matter of geography - the civilians who supplied the military base could not be too far from the fortress to effectively supply it, and roads that were built for the purposes of aiding rapid troop movement along the border functioned just as well for supporting merchant caravans. Senior officers built houses in the town rather than permanently reside in the cramped and necessarily spartan confines of the fort, enlisted soldiers made frequent trips whenever their off-duty shifts allowed them to, and almost without anyone noticing what had been a simple inn at the crossroads transitioned into a full-blown settlement.

It wasn't a particularly _large_ place, of course. Aldencross might have a loyal customer base and a strategically significant location, but there were reasons that the borderlands had remained largely unsettled for so many years, and the town's natural advantages only went so far in canceling out the effects of the rough terrain and the long winters. Eventually a kind of equilibrium had been reached, as the town swelled to hold just under two thousand souls in a few decades and then remained at that level for the next few centuries, virtually unchanged. By the standards of the great metropolises of the Heartland, it was an insignificant backwater, little more than a ramshackle extension of the great fortress Balentyne that watched over it from the hill perhaps a mile to the north.

Still, two thousand people was enough to guarantee that no-one in the town knew absolutely everyone else, and the constant influx of merchants and tradesmen looking to do business in the area meant that no one found an unfamiliar face to be a particularly odd thing. Mira and Timeon stole into town just as the dawn's light touched the far horizon, using the magic of their _circlets_ to take on carefully neutral guises that would not raise suspicion as they moved through the town and studied the place and the layout with a careful eye for detail. Even at this early hour there was plenty of activity on the streets, dozens of industrious laborers and tradesmen rising with the sun to prepare for the day ahead, and blending in was no great difficulty. Looking around without being too obvious about it was a bit more difficult, but Mira felt confident that enough outsiders made a point of exploring the place when they arrived that two more wouldn't arose any undue suspicion in anyone who happened to see them.

Literacy was far from universal in Talingarde, though it was a requirement for the clergy and anyone that hoped to obtain significant military or social rank, and that meant that most businesses and civil institutions advertised their purpose by way of large and obvious signs decorated with appropriate images. A useful guide for the illiterate also made for a veritable godsend for someone trying to get a feel for the layout of a town, and within a couple of hours Mira and Timeon had established a thorough understanding of the key features of Aldencross, bouncing facts and short questions off one another as they walked until they were sure that they understood the place properly. Further details on any one place in particular could naturally be obtained by the simple expedient of asking one of the locals, but it was always useful to have a solid foundation for such supplementary knowledge to build upon, especially if you wanted to be able to visit somewhere without needing to ask questions that might be remembered later at the most inconvenient times. It was perhaps an unnecessary level of paranoia, but such elaborate care was a common element in many of the techniques imparted to them in Thorn's training, and on balance Mira decided that a little extra caution was probably worth the effort.

Much as she had suspected, it did not take long to confirm that many of the town's institutions were singular in nature. A settlement the size of Aldencross did not need more than a single smithy or alchemist, could get by with a marketplace that was really just a clear section of grass near the centre of town, and was able to accommodate its pious population with a lone church that presumably ran each service multiple times in sequence. More directly relevant to their needs, the town only required a single inn that actually catered to travelers; a sturdy two-story building in the centre of town entitled the Lord's Dalliance. Mira raised an eyebrow at the scantily-clad woman on the inn's sign, then shrugged and stepped inside. A few quick words to the proprietor, a short story identifying her as a scion of some minor noble family in the area to conduct a review of potential investment opportunities for the new year and a handful of gold coins were all it took to secure a comfortable room and all her meals for the next month.

Vaguely bemused at how easy it had been to infiltrate the place, Mira dismissed Timeon to his own room and promptly set about securing a wash tub and enough heated water to properly scrub away the accumulated grime and stench of the journey. As expected the frontier town did not boast sufficient facilities to provide enough heated water for a full bath, but this was a tolerable enough substitute for the moment, and doubtless she could find a suitable river somewhere for a proper wash in the future. Right now the slow and mechanical actions worked well enough to help clear her mind, and she could use the time to start planning out how she would go about accomplishing her mission here. More than anything else right now, she needed information, both about the fortress and the soldiers that manned it. Fortunately, the Dalliance was evidently a reasonably popular tavern, and that meant there were certain avenues of approach that had been used in such places for so long that they were almost _traditional_.

-/-

"A toast! Here's to the soldiers of Balentyne, one hundred of the finest men and women I've ever served with!"

The soldier, a grizzled looking sort in the blue and white uniform of Talingarde's military, raised his cup high into the air as he called out to the bar. Well used to such acts by now, Mira raised her own glass in response, though she neglected to actually give voice to any words of support. It would not have mattered in any case, for just about every other inhabitant of the inn's common room, soldier and civilian alike, did so for her, the cheers and positive remarks blending together into a solid wall of noise.

This, too, was fairly common behavior in the townships that supported the Watch Wall. For centuries the destiny of Aldencross had been intertwined with the fortunes of Balentyne, the two nominally separate but in reality connected on a fundamental level. It was the sons of Aldencross who made up the bulk of the garrison standing watch on the fortress walls, and the daughters that married those sons (with the odd exception or reversal as required to accommodate less traditional gender roles or sexual orientations). The inhabitants of the town regarded their relationship with the fortress as one of civic duty, and their feelings towards the garrison itself tended towards a level of patriotic pride that bordered on fanaticism. It had taken Mira all of an hour listening to the general mood of the town before she ruled out any possibility of recruiting co-conspirators here, though that did not necessarily prevent her from duping someone here into providing unwitting aid. It would have been nice to have some assistance beyond just Timeon, but she hadn't really expected this to be a particularly easy assignment anyway.

Still, there were advantages to the strong bonds between the town and the fortress. Long familiarity meant that the townsfolk had an extensive knowledge of the soldiers that manned it, and pride meant they were more than happy to talk about it at great length to anyone that approached them in the right way. More than that, she'd chosen well when she elected to stay at the Lord's Dalliance, for the inn was evidently fairly popular with the soldiery, many of whom visited here for a drink and some friendly conversation whenever they were off-duty for long enough.

Of course, there were other reasons for the inn's popularity. Mira smiled quietly to herself as she studied the common room over the top of her cup, watching the interplay between the carousing soldiers and the collection of young and attractive admirers that hovered around them. Prostitution was technically illegal in Talingarde, the trade having been outlawed by the Victor when first he came to power, but that didn't mean that it ceased to exist. Places like the Dalliance had catered to the needs and desires of the soldiery and traveling merchants before the Darians came to power, and they had continued to do so long after the law had turned against them, simply adopting a respectable facade and constructing a careful web of lies to protect their staff from any unfortunate repercussions of their chosen line of work. Doubtless the young men and women before her would firmly deny any accusations brought against them, insisting that nothing they did was against the law or even really a deliberate business in the first place. They simply happened to find the sight of men and women in uniform appealing, and if that attraction turned out to be mutual then where was the harm? Likewise, they certainly didn't demand payment for sharing their bodies with a willing partner, they just accepted _gifts_ from their paramours should said people choose to bestow such things.

Shaking her head, Mira returned her thoughts to the mission. She'd been here for two days thus far, and in that time had managed to extract a basic understanding of the garrison that was standing in her way. As the toasting veteran had indicated, there were a full hundred rank and file soldiers in Balentyne, which roughly matched what she would have expected for a fortress of that size. Not all of them were on duty at any one time, of course, for a competent commander would design his duty roster to keep his troops fresh and well-rested whenever possible, both for the purposes of morale and to maintain simple combat effectiveness. Still, any major assault on the fortress would draw everyone inside to the defense, and even without any other factors to consider that many men would be virtually impossible to shift from behind some strong fortifications without immense power or truly appalling losses among the attackers. Somehow, she'd have to reduce their numbers before the end of the month.

Commanding those soldiers were the Captains, those of the same rank that she had once held, each responsible for a different aspect of the defenses and trusted to intervene elsewhere if it should prove necessary. They were the linchpins of any theoretical defense, the core around which any serious operation would be based, so she would have to find some way of removing them before calling in the attack became a plan with any real chance of success. The tactics for dealing with each would need to be carefully selected, for each of the four was a markedly different kind of man, with different behaviors and capabilities.

There was 'Iron Sam' Barhold, a grey-haired veteran who had served on the wall most of his life. Tough, dependable and beloved by his men, he was almost certainly the most dangerous of the four Captains, the one that she absolutely had to remove in order to give the assault a chance of success. After him came Franz Mott, a grim and professional soldier who commanded the frontline troops. He led through discipline and proven worth rather than the respect and devotion given to Barhold, but that was still more than enough to make him a serious threat. Captain Eddarly, by contrast, was apparently a maverick and a charming rogue, not so much the leader of his archers as a common soldier who happened to have acquired some kind of rank almost by accident. Finally, there was Ryan Varning, a young nobleman who spent most of his time away from the fortress patrolling the local countryside with his mounted rangers, watching for any signs that some smaller force had slipped across the border while avoiding the main passages guarding the Wall itself.

Four men, each of which would probably be a serious threat if attacked head on, never mind what would happen if she faced them with their soldiers in attendance. Mira sipped her drink and contemplated the challenge that they posed. Just about any of them could probably be murdered in their sleep without too much trouble, but that was a trick that would only work once, for at the first sign of a lurking assassin the entire garrison would probably go into lockdown and no-one would dare to sleep without trusted soldiers watching over the door to their room. Her greatest advantage at the moment was that of surprise, for there was virtually no chance that anyone in Balentyne was expecting some kind of assassin and saboteur, and that was an advantage she hoped to keep for as long as possible.

Of course, the rank and file military were only the first line of defense Balentyne possessed. As a military establishment under the authority of the House of Darius, the fortress naturally boasted a small chapel and attendant staff of priests. Not every ordained member of the Church of Mitra was a spellcaster, indeed it could fairly be said that only a small minority boasted such abilities, but Balentyne's spiritual advisor was widely agreed to be capable of invoking such miracles as required. Father Althus Donnagin was, it seemed, the most popular man in the entire fortress. Just about everyone she had spoken to was eager to regal her with tales of how the gregarious priest had helped them out when they found themselves in a bind, how he healed wounds and bolstered the soldiers with his magic and how he strove to demonstrate the glory and wisdom of Mitra through every word and action. He sounded, in short, like one of the few priests Mira could have possibly found herself admiring before her conversion, but now those same qualities made him perhaps the second most dangerous man in Balentyne.

The first was the commander of the entire fortress, Lord Thomas of Havelyn. Frowning, Mira set her glass down and resisted the urge to mutter curses as she considered everything she knew about the man. He was well respected and a competent warrior, that much everyone agreed upon, but if that was all the threat he posed she wouldn't have been nearly so concerned. No, the true problem was that the good Lord Havelyn was apparently an anointed paladin of Mitra and a high-ranking member of the Knights of the Alerion. Just about everything she could do he could likely match, and the chances were his power probably eclipsed hers through simple virtue of extended experience. If they were to cross blades, she would almost certainly lose, and no matter how bitter the thought made her feel there was little to be done about it other than to make sure it never came down to that.

If the assault was to succeed, Havelyn would have to die. There was simply no other way, not unless she wished to be truly foolish and dismiss the obvious threat that such a dangerous warrior could present, and the sheer importance of the task meant that she would have to do it personally. Still, just because the deed would have to be done by her own hand didn't mean she had to be stupid about it. If possible, she'd find some way to stab him in the back rather than face him head-on, ideally while he was out of his armour, unarmed and asleep. Of course, since the commander never left the fortress that meant she would have to go to him, which brought her back to her current problem. Namely, how the hell was she going to get in there?

Balentyne was, after all, a fortress, and such things were by design difficult to infiltrate even if you knew what kind of layout it possessed. Unfortunately, all she'd been able to glean so far came from looking at it from a mile away and a few logical deductions, since she had yet to work out a way of inquiring about the specific defenses the place boasted without sounding amazingly suspicious to everyone within earshot. She knew that the fortress existed to guard the wide stone bridge that crossed the River Tyburn, a legacy of the days when the dwarves had ruled Talingarde and built the network of roads that crisscrossed most of the kingdom, which in turn suggested the existence of certain defensive features, but a mere suggestion wasn't nearly enough to go on when trying to work out how to sabotage a place. Unless she could get in there and take a personal look, or else come by some particularly detailed schematics of the whole place, there was no way she was going to be able to succeed in her mission.

The second option wasn't a complete impossibility, as it turned out, but it still struck her as being rather difficult to achieve. Picking up her glass again, she took another drink and allowed her gaze to stray towards the small group of dwarves on the far side of the common room. There was a decent population of the short folk within Aldencross, but this particular group were outsiders; engineers brought in to conduct some kind of overhaul or repair work to the castle's defenses and quartered in the town. They would almost certainly have some kind of schematics in their possession, but she highly doubted they would allow such documents out of their sight for the length of time needed to make a copy, and stealing them would be an unmistakeable signal that _someone_ was planning something against the fortress. Best to consider that a fall-back option then, one to perhaps take at a later date after any hope of true surprise had already been lost.

Which left direct infiltration. On the surface of it, that wasn't a particularly difficult concept - all she needed to do was eliminate one of the soldiers and take their place with the aid of her _circlet_ , returning to the fortress like any number of other off-duty soldiers. The problem with such a method would only really become apparent once she was inside, because there was no way she could reasonably ask for directions while impersonating a soldier, and even a single mistake in where to go or who to talk to would run the risk of exposing her deception at the worst possible moment. She'd need to find somewhere to hide when it came time to sleep as well, for she would not be able to rely upon slipping back out of the castle and returning to the town whenever she needed to, especially not once her work had begun and the garrison started growing increasingly suspicious. And if she _was_ caught, well, that would basically be the end for both her life and the mission. The military was hardly renowned for their mercy towards traitors and saboteurs, after all. Still, unless she could come up with something else that might work, those were risks she would simply have to take.

Frowning, Mira drained the last of her wine and continued to think.

-/-

The sun had set hours ago, and now the sky outside was completely dark, a layer of clouds hiding the moon and stars from sight. On the upper floor of the Lord's Dalliance, the door at the end of the corridor opened and Bellam Barhold stepped out. He took a moment to look back at his bed, where his beloved wife Alicia still slumbered soundly, then closed the door as gently as he could. A fond smile on his face, he turned and crept away down the hall, moving with as much stealth as his large frame could grant him.

He didn't like being up and about at such an ungodly hour, for the day to day business of the Dalliance was tiring enough without attempting to make it through on only half a night's sleep, but it couldn't be helped. This was not a matter that was suited to the daylight hours, to be performed under the ever-watching eyes of Mitra, and it was not one that he wanted to risk being observed by any of his patrons either. He might not consider his mission to be any kind of crime, but the law might well think otherwise, and he was skirting close enough to the boundaries of that as it was.

He moved carefully down the corridor towards the stairs at the far end, passing the doors that led to those rooms he rented to paying customers. Most were still and silent, their inhabitants having long since wandered off into the realm of dreams, but one in particular still displayed some signs of activity. He paused in his movements as the muffled sound of a breathy moan came to him, still just about audible despite the thick wooden planks of the intervening door, then shook his head and moved on with a fond smile. At least one of his girls was still hard at work, it seemed, and he vaguely wondered whether that meant a late client or simply one with remarkable stamina.

Ah, listen to him, speculating on such things like some kind of leering old man. It was no business of his what his staff got up to after hours, nor the business of anyone save the most immediate participants. It was an attitude that he wished more people would share, even though he knew such a hope was probably futile given the times they lived in. The world's oldest trade didn't hurt anyone, after all, provided that it actually _was_ a trade and not some kind of degrading abuse forced upon an unwilling participant. Stuff like that might happen in Ghastenhall's Red Quarter, but Aldencross was a respectable town, and Bellam Barhold a respectable tavern owner. His girls and boys were employees, damn it, even if the work they reported when they paid their taxes didn't quite match up with reality, and since all the evidence indicated that the trade would never die out completely, was it not better that it at least be done somewhere warm and safe, rather than in some dingy hovel in the backstreets of a major city? Bellam thought so, even if the town's more 'respectable' residents disagreed.

He snorted quietly to himself as he reached the stairs and began descending into the common room. 'Respectable' his _foot_. Old Dominick the Reeve might talk a fine game about maintaining the 'general character' of Aldencross, and Brother Justin might make sure to warn against the weakness of spirit that over-indulgence represented whenever he delivered one of his sermons, but neither of them had ever made any serious moves to have the town's trade shut down. They both knew what happened in the Dalliance, as did anyone else in town who did not deliberate delude themselves into believing otherwise, but so long as no-one tried to ply their trade outside of the inn the powers that be were content to simply continue turning a blind eye to the whole affair.

As he reached the common room he paused, turning to look back up the stairs with a vague frown on his features. For a moment there, he could have sworn he had heard the faint _creak_ of one of the floorboards yielding under someone's weight, but after a few moments waiting no-one poked their head around the corner and there were no more sounds, so he had probably imagined it. Or perhaps it was just the sounds of the building settling as the cool night air caused the wooden beams to contract slightly? Well, so long as it didn't go beyond the odd noise every now and then it probably didn't matter, and if it did result in some notable damage the inn was doing well enough that he could afford to shell out for the relevant repairs.

It hadn't always been like that, and as Bellam made his way behind the bar and into the kitchen he found his thoughts drifting back to those darker days. A tavern was one of the businesses most often affected by the rise and fall of the local economy, for just about everything that he produced and sold came under the heading of 'luxuries' in the minds of most, and such things were often the first to go whenever people found themselves needing to tighten their belts and save a little money. If too many people made such decisions then it would start cutting into his profit margins, and if things got too bad he would eventually be unable to afford to keep the kitchens fully stocked. That in turn reduced the amount of clients he _could_ support, and so things went in a vicious downward spiral.

It had been in one of those periods of depression that he had originally discovered the passageway, when he ventured into the underground storeroom for long lengths of time to carefully calculate just how much further he could stretch what he had before the inn's finances collapsed completely. Lost in desperate misery and growing fear, he'd latched onto any distraction to keep his mind off his troubles, and that in turn had led him to stare at the wall long enough to notice the slightly odd shape of one of the protruding bricks.

It was easy to find once you knew what you were looking for, but unless you had some idea there was a door there in the first place you could spend days in the cellar and fail to find anything. As Bellam descended the second set of stairs into the depths of his property he smiled at the memory, still recalling the utter shock and dawning hope that he'd felt the first time that he'd pressed on that stone and seen a full section of the wall slide open without a sound. As he crossed the cellar and pressed on the stone once again, he took a moment to marvel at the superlative skill of whichever engineer and stonemason that had originally constructed it. Probably a dwarf, if he had to guess; everyone knew the short folk were some of the finest craftsmen in all of Talingarde, even centuries after their own kingdoms had largely fallen into obscurity.

Everyone in town knew that the Lord's Dalliance had once been a brothel, and most were aware that for all intents and purposes it still was, but surprisingly few had ever given much thought to the origins of the vaguely salacious name. After he'd first discovered the tunnel, Bellam had gone back through some of the old records in the town hall and spoken to a few of his older neighbours. It turned out that the name had actually been surprisingly literal, as the brothel had once counted among its customers a previous Lord-Commander of Balentyne, though presumably it hadn't advertised itself by such a title until after he was gone. It had been that lord who had ordered the tunnel constructed, so that he could pay a visit to his favourite lady without drawing the attention of his soldiers or any of the watching townsfolk, any number of whom might have been tempted to pass the word onto his distant wife.

Common wisdom held it that the tunnel had been sealed up, but as it turned out it had simply fallen out of use and then been forgotten about. Chuckling to himself at the memory, Bellam picked up the small lantern that he kept just beyond the hidden doorway and lit it, sealing the entrance behind him a moment later. He probably didn't need to go to the trouble, since it was unlikely in the extreme that anyone in the tavern would have cause to come down here and see it before he returned, but he hadn't kept the tunnel secret this long by being careless.

The tunnel ran for a mile in a straight line towards the north, eventually ending in another secret door that led into Balentyne's secondary storerooms, a lonely place that most of the garrison didn't even know about much less visit on a regular basis. When he'd first discovered it, Bellam had taken advantage of the access to restock the Dalliance's larder from some of the supplies held there, just enough to help the inn to survive through the bad times until business picked back up again. The memory made him feel somewhat guilty even today, but it wasn't as though he'd taken enough to seriously impact the fort's supplies, and he'd replaced it all himself once he had the money to do so a few years later. Besides, a little loan wasn't so much to ask for in return for all the years of loyal service the Barhold family had given to the military, now was it? True, he wasn't his brother Sam, but the principle still applied.

It wasn't food that brought him here tonight, though, but rather the pursuit of finer fare. His brother had told him the last time they met that one of the other Watch commanders had sent Lord Havelyn a gift, a full case of fine elvish wine in thanks for some service that the paladin had done him in the past. Such quality liquor was virtually impossible to get ahold of and worth it's weight in gold, and what had the commander done with it? Stuck it in some forgotten corner of his fortress as far away from his own quarters as possible, with no intention of ever so much as looking at it or any other kind of alcohol for as long as he lived.

Bemused, Bellam shook his head as he strode along, already thinking of what better use he could put such a gift to. _Such a waste to leave it down there, and fine elvish wine at that! Honestly, that's a crime far worse than anything I've ever done..._

-/-

As the portal slid shut and the dark tunnel beyond disappeared from view, Mira stepped around the corner of the staircase and walked down into the cellar proper, studying the far wall with an intense gaze.

"A secret tunnel?" She murmured to herself, a small smile creeping its way onto her features. "How... fortunate."

She'd been praying in her rooms when she'd heard the noise, choosing the midnight hour as the best time to offer praise to Asmodeus and request some kind of divine guidance in locating another way into the fortress. She'd already decided to go with the original plan of replacing one of the soldiers if she received no reply, but just as her quiet worship was coming to an end she'd detected the sound of someone moving quietly past the door to her room. Carefully investigating had brought her outside just in time to see the innkeeper sneaking back down the stairs at the far end of the corridor, and something about the sight had roused her curiousity enough to inspire her to follow him. Now, she was glad that she had.

Where the secret passageway went, precisely, she did not know, but from the direction it seemed likely it was some hidden means of accessing Balentyne without going through the main gates. Why it had been built in the first place, she could only guess. Likewise, whether it had been simple coincidence that had caused the innkeeper to make use of it this night or whether it really had been an answer to her prayers, she had no way of knowing. In the end, though, all of that was irrelevant. She had her way in.

Now, her work could begin.


	13. Act Four - The Captains

Way of the Wicked Chapter Thirteen

Services in the chapel were always inspirational, especially when Father Donnagin found some excuse to work a bit of choral music in there at the appropriate moments. Franz Mott didn't usually consider himself a particularly pious man, but even he had to admit that the sound of the priest and his supporting acolytes raising their voices in blessed hymns could bring a man a sense of peace and fulfillment he might find nowhere else. The way that the stone statues all around the chapel seemed to join in on the hymns, adding their own refrains and harmonic counterparts to the priest's singing in tones like crystal bells... well, that only enhanced the experience.

He'd asked the father once about those statues, the 'Singing Saints of Balentyne' that were famous throughout the borderlands for their musical gift, wondering if they had any connection to the divine magic that he'd seen the priest work a time or two before. Althus - and it was always Althas when speaking to the man privately, never the more formal 'Father Donnagin' - had just smiled at him in a way that left him feeling vaguely chastised, before commenting that not all of Mitra's miracles needed a human conduit to manifest themselves in the world of man. It was a sobering reminder in some ways, for it was all too easy to forget that the miracles worked by the priests of Mitra were not entirely their own, but at the same time it was reassuring to know that something so kind and powerful stood watch over their home just as they stood guard over the homes of others.

The garrison, it seemed, had evidently decided they could use a bit of reassurance today. The services in Balentyne's chapel were usually well attended, the soldiers motivated by their love for the garrulous priest as much as their own piety, but today it seemed that just about everyone who wasn't on active duty had flocked to the small building to listen to the songs and the sermon. Some sixty men filled the pews and lifted their voices in praise to the Shining Lord, resplendent in their pristine uniforms and shining armour. Weapons tended to be left outside rather than brought into the church, but today just about everyone was carrying a blade of some kind, if only as a reassuring gesture against whatever menace stalked the halls of their fortress.

Shaking his head, Franz turned his attention back to the front of the chapel and allowed his eyes to rest on the large alter there. It was carved from a single block of white stone, possibly marble cut from the heart of the Ansgarian mountains far to the south, and bore minimal decoration save for a single inscription across the front - _There is no darkness so deep that a single candle cannot defeat it_. He'd always found that layout an appropriate choice for a watch fortress, though he was aware that not everyone shared his views. Still, a relatively plain and functional design appealed to his sensibilities and resonated with the bluntly practical nature of the castle itself, while the inscription was one that he had often repeated to himself during the long hours of duty, staring out into the endless wastes to the north. And, lately, at the shadows that gathered within Balentyne itself.

Somewhere, lurking in the depths of the fortress or possibly creeping in from beyond the walls, there was a saboteur. Not an obvious or particularly straightforward one, for none of the castle's siege engines had been disabled and all of the guards were still in full health, but one that evidently had some kind of goal in mind and the skills required to pursue that goal. Too much had gone wrong recently for there to be any other explanation, at least to Franz's suspicious mind. It had begun with the rookery, where the collection of trained messenger ravens that the fort used to communicate with the rest of the kingdom had been kept. Somehow, the meat that had been used for their daily meal had become diseased or rotten in some fashion, a fact not discovered until the vast majority of them had perished. Martin, the strange little man that kept and looked after them, had been utterly distraught at the disaster, promptly secluding himself away in the tower to care for the few that had managed to survive. The last Franz had heard, those small handful would not be fit for duty again for a few weeks, if they survived at all, and that meant that Balentyne had been effectively cut off from the world at large.

Then it had been the arrow stores, where the supplies for the garrison's archers had been stored in case of dire need. The place was normally abandoned for the majority of the day, only visited when the shifts changed and the new soldiers needed to secure an adequate supply of ammunition for their bows, but it seemed that had been a mistake. The evidence so far seemed to indicate that a wild bird had managed to get in through one of the narrow windows and promptly knocked one of the torches that illuminated the place out of its holder. Poor luck had seen the burning torch land in one of the barrels of arrows, which itself had been overloaded and thus toppled over at the impact, and before anyone had been able to realize what was happening and put a stop to it the entire room had been consumed in the blaze. The Lord-Commander had immediately commissioned the VonKraig smithy in Aldencross to produce a replacement stockpile, but until that happened the garrison would be reduced to just the ammunition carried by those guards on-duty when the disaster had occurred.

Those unfortunate events, Franz would have been content to dismiss as coincidence, but when the dwarf engineer Eisenbach had made an inspection of the rest of the castle's defenses as part of his work and found the ropes in the mechanism behind the Seal to have been chewed apart by a small colony of termites... well, if twice was a coincidence, three times had to be enemy action. Just like the others, the problems with the Seal were not a particularly crippling blow to the security of the fortress, for it was something of a backup plan - in the case of an absolute disaster, such as the castle somehow falling to an enemy attack, the great Seal of Talingarde could be lowered from its position on the outer wall and positioned to block the main thoroughfare that ran the length of the fortress's lower floor. The giant stone shield wouldn't completely prevent an attacking force from moving through the fortress, but it _would_ deny them a clear path and force them to make use of the narrow stairwells and alternate exits elsewhere in the castle. With it disabled, an attacking force could theoretically cross the old stone bridge that Balentyne was guarding, march straight through the fortress and leave out the far side.

Still, all of these could be dismissed as accidental and no-one had died yet, so the Lord-Commander had not seen fit to respond in any serious fashion. Franz glanced along the pews to the position near the front where the Lord-Commander was standing, his armour gleaming with magical enchantment and his bearded head bowed in reverence to the altar in front of him, biting back a curse. He knew he was being unfair, for until there was some sign of precisely how the saboteur was infiltrating their position there was little that Lord Havelyn could really do to discourage them. Extra guards had been posted in all of the more vital areas and the sentries warned to be as vigilant as possible, but short of pulling everyone away from their immediate duties and mounting a top to bottom search of the entire fortress for some indefinable threat there was little more that could be done.

Especially not when some of the evidence seemed to indicate that whoever was behind this might very well be a member of the garrison itself. How else were they able to accomplish such tasks without inside knowledge? Certainly there was nothing about the Seal to indicate it had more than a purely decorative purpose unless you knew about it already...

Tearing his mind away from such troubling thoughts, Franz bowed his head as the hymnal came to an end and Father Donnagin once again took his position behind the altar. In many ways the priest was a walking stereotype - a large man with the faintly rounded face and considerable bulk of someone who enjoyed a bit too much good food, his brown hair was shaved in a monk's tonsure and his blue eyes always seemed to be shining with amusement and kindly wisdom. In the depths of his soul Franz knew he was vaguely jealous of the priest, for though he had always done his best to uphold his duty to the best of his abilities and lead his men as well as he knew how, he simply didn't have the same kind of natural charisma and warmth as the friendly priest did. His soldiers might respect him and obey whatever orders he gave them, but they _liked_ the priest, and that was a sensation that had been absent from his life for far too long.

"Thank you all for being here." The priest was saying, his warm tones washing over the congregation in a gentle wave and reaching even to the very back of the chapel. "It does my heart good to know that Talingarde can still count on such brave and pious men to guard its borders. Now, we've already covered most of the relevant topics for today's sermon, and you all know where the next one is, so I'll just add that I am still available for consultations and advice throughout the week. If you need anything, large or small, please come and find me. All issues will be dealt with in the strictest confidence."

His head bowed, Franz had to stifle a small smile at that particular pronouncement. It was a quiet understanding among the garrison that many of the young men and women would visit Aldencross on their off hours for some 'recreation', and that such indulgences occasionally ended up with one of the soldiers needing some way to discretely cleanse the pox from their bodies before returning to duty. Father Donnagin had always been willing to provide such services, off the record and with the minimum of fuss or lecturing, and that had gone quite some way to securing his popularity among the garrison. It had always struck Hanz as vaguely blasphemous to put the gifts of Mitra towards such base ends, but he supposed that the priest was better qualified than he to decide on such matters.

"Still, with that said I think I've chattered on long enough. May the light of Mitra go with you as you carry out your duties, and may He watch over our friends and family in the days and weeks to come. ' _Till all is light._ "

"'Till all is light." Franz murmured in response, his voice lost among the general swell of noise that accompanied it from all of the other worshippers. Then, the sermon over, he turned with them and joined the general tide of men and women heading for the exits and the rest of their days. Some would be heading for the barracks, others for Aldencross or their duty stations, ready to relieve the standing shift and take over the endless duty of watching the frontier for any sign of trouble. As for Franz himself, well, he'd finished his shift for the day, and was therefore going home.

Ahead of him, there was a faint stir in the soldiers as one particular man moved past them towards the exit. Tacitus of Morimun was a tall, slender man dressed in robes of dark blue with orange highlights, whose hair was little more than a wild mess of dark red strands and who watched the world with beady eyes from behind a set of gold-rimmed spectacles. His official position was Magister of Balentyne, a semi-formal rank that put him roughly on par with Franz and the other captains, and aside from the Lord-Commander there was no-one in the entire fortress who was realistically even half as dangerous in a fight.

If the Wizard noticed the strange and almost hostile looks he was getting as he made his way through the crowd, he didn't allow any reaction to show upon his face. Oh, he occasionally shot a disdainful glance in the direction of one of the soldiers when they drew too near to him in the crowd, but the garrison at large was perfectly used to his unfriendly demeanor by this point and had long since stopped expecting anything different. Maybe if Tacitus spent more time alongside them some of that strange and distant reputation would start to diminish, but aside from these weekly services and the odd meetings with the Lord-Commander and the other officers the Magister barely ever left his tower. Even his meals were brought directly to him by the servants, rather than being taken in the mess hall like everyone else had to, a fact that had not done the man many favours in the eyes of the rank and file.

Some of those soldiers were probably already inclined towards blaming him for the spate of misfortune that seemed to have befallen them of late. Wizards had never been popular in Talingarde, seen as arrogant and dangerous at the best of times and one step short of outright heresy at others, and it was all too easy to start blaming them whenever anything went wrong. Franz doubted that anyone seriously thought Tacitus might be deliberately sabotaging the defenses - he'd never shown himself to be anything other than a loyal son of Talingarde - but that didn't mean he couldn't have afflicted Balentyne with some kind of curse of ill luck by accident. Mitra knew the man conducted enough strange and esoteric experiments in that tower of his to create any number of side effects. Still, short of banishing him from the tower and seeing if that improved things there was no way to prove such suspicions, so Franz pushed the matter out of his mind and moved on.

The chapel was located in the heart of Balentyne, pressed up against the inside of the main fortress wall, so when Franz emerged with the rest of the soldiers it was into the open courtyard that served as a crossroads for the rest of the fortress. Gravel paths were arranged in straight lines to and from the various doors built into the surrounding wall, and the grass lawns and flower beds between them were well cared for by the acolytes in their spare time. The only real decoration beyond that was a small fountain and the statue of a large and powerfully built knight in full plate - King Markaddian the First, called the Victor, the man who had ordered Balentyne built in the first place.

Driven by a long-standing habit that was almost a tradition, Franz touched his brow in a quick salute to the statue of the first and greatest of the Darian kings, before turning away and making for the exit towards Aldencross. He crossed the courtyard at a quick march, the shadow of the main keep falling across him as he passed beneath it, and nodded to the soldiers standing watch on either side of the doors. They saluted him promptly, then turned to open the gates, and without further fuss Franz left the castle and began making his way towards Aldencross.

Like all of the officers he had quarters in the fortress, a small room on the lower levels situated near to the main thoroughfare, but as with many men of such rank throughout the years he also maintained a home in Aldencross proper. The property was technically maintained by his family, an old and powerful mercantile house based out of Daveryn, but since none of his relatives cared to live so far north it was his in all but name. Well, his and his wife's.

Despite himself, Franz felt a small scowl creep its way onto his features when he thought about Kaitlyn. They'd married five years ago, an arranged match orchestrated as a way of tying their two families closer together, but despite the high hopes that everyone had held going in the arrangement simply hadn't worked out very well. He'd certainly never expected to fall in love at first sight or anything quite so trite, but it would have been nice if some positive feelings had managed to grow between the two of them over the past few years of living together. She was certainly beautiful enough, with her long red hair and flawless skin, but while that was enough of a basis for physical attraction it had certainly never bloomed into any kind of real romance. They were simply too different in personality and desires to find any kind of real common ground.

Why couldn't she understand? Service on the Watch Wall was an important and respected duty, one of the most well regarded positions it was possible to have in the Talirean military. He would have been made to turn the appointment down, never mind the fact that a successful career as a Watch Captain would all but guarantee him an appointment as commander of one of the other fortresses in a few years, and that in turn came with an almost automatic promotion into the ranks of the minor aristocracy for him and his immediate family. It wasn't as if Aldencross was a particularly terrible place to live either; something of a backwater, perhaps, but a nice enough town all the same and far from the worst location she could have ended up with. But no, she had to continue treating the whole affair as some kind of terrible exile, complaining about every little detail at every possible opportunity, ignoring every attempt he made to address her concerns.

Sighing, he once again considered the possibility of reaching out to his family for help. Kaitlyn was a smart and educated woman, so there had to be something productive she could do elsewhere to help support the family's mercantile concerns. He'd held off so far because he was aware of how bad such a move might look to his family and neighbours, but if something didn't change soon it might be worth going through with it anyway and damn the consequences. He didn't want to live his life in utter misery just because fate had inflicted a poor marriage on him, and he'd been spending more time in his quarters in the castle of late as it was.

He got a few waves and friendly greetings on his way into Aldencross, which he generally returned with a brusque nod or a simple platitude. He'd been here long enough by now that all of the townsfolk recognized him on sight, for his armour and the halberd he had strapped to his back if not for his rather plain and undistinguished looks. The sun had just dipped below the western horizon when he arrived back at his house, the lamplight shining out through the windows and illuminating the garden as he walked up to the door. He took a moment to brace himself on the porch, just in case Kaitlyn turned out to be in a particularly bad mood tonight, then opened the door and strode inside.

He found her in the dining room, seated at the far end of the long table and reading a book. She looked up as he entered, her emerald eyes sharp and critical, then rose to her feet. He was already bracing himself for whatever new complaint she was about to make when he saw her eyes move to look at something just over his shoulder and widen in surprise.

It was instinct that saved him then, reflexes built up over years of service that propelled him into motion even before he could start to seriously process what was going on. He turned, one hand reaching back for the haft of his weapon, and as a result the short sword in the attacker's hand struck the side of his breastplate and skittered off rather than punching through the weak joints and into the vulnerable flesh of his back. Without thinking he lashed out with his free hand, swinging the mailed fist around in a sharp motion that threatened to cave in the face of whoever it hit. His attacker stepped backwards out of reach, dodging the blow but in turn allowing Franz enough breathing room that his mind finally caught up with what his eyes were seeing.

His attacker was an elf, a fact so utterly surprising that it took a moment before he could actually accept it. Still, there was no denying what he was seeing, for though he had never laid eyes on one before there was little else that could explain the unusually slender build or the pointed ears that stuck out from under the head of dark brown hair. The elf's eyes, which were slightly wider than those of any human and coloured a vivid purple, were regarding him with the kind of icy disdain he recognized from the most veteran killers amongst his own soldiers. It held a short and viciously sharp sword in one hand and a slender dagger in the other, both gripped with the kind of casual ease that told of extensive training and experience.

"Franz, what..." He heard Kaitlyn say behind him, her voice surprisingly calm and level considering what was going on. Perhaps she simply hadn't processed it yet, or perhaps she had a clearer head under pressure than he had previously realized, but either way he needed to get her out of here.

"Kaitlyn, run. Get help." He growled, not daring to take his eyes off of his opponent for a second. His hand was still on the haft of his halberd, but drawing it was not something that could be done quickly, and if he left himself vulnerable for any length of time there was no telling what might happen. Still, the assassin had botched the initial strike, and now he was facing a trained soldier with a full martial weapon on his home ground. This was a fight that Franz knew he could win on his own, but it would be easier with help and if he didn't have to worry about exposing Kaitlyn to danger, and if they could take the elf prisoner he knew that the Lord-Commander would have a great many questions to ask.

The elf's hand blurred into motion, a sudden throw that sent the dagger flying through the air towards his face, and despite himself Franz flinched. Threats aimed at the face and especially the eyes were among the most likely to draw an involuntary response, and that was something that the elf was evidently intending to capitalize on, for it was already moving forwards in a lunge with the sword as the knife left its hand. Still, Franz was experienced enough to know how to deal with such danger even if he couldn't entirely control his reaction to it, and he raised one hand to protect his face even as he dragged his halberd free with the other. The blade clattered off his vambrace and spun away to land in some distant corner of the room, but before he could bring his own weapon around the elf's sword found its mark in the meat of his left thigh, the assassin ducking beneath his guard in a lunge so low it was almost a dive.

Roaring in pain and anger, Franz finally managed to get his halberd free of its position on his back, taking it in a two handed grip and swinging it down towards the elf in a mighty arc. The assassin didn't hesitate, throwing himself sideways with a graceful move that took him under the table and out the other side in a single liquid motion, leaving the blade of the halberd to bite deep into the floorboards with a deep _thunk_.

Gritting his teeth at the pain in his leg, Franz didn't give his would-be murderer time to react. Leaving one hand on the haft of his weapon to steady himself, he reached out with the other and grabbed the edge of the table. Muscles burning, he hauled upwards and sent the heavy wooden furniture tumbling over, the table's sheer bulk pinning the assassin against the far wall and leaving him no room to maneuver. Wrenching the halberd free of the floor with a grunt, Franz took the weapon in a two-handed grip, estimated where the assassin was likely to be on the far side of the table, and thrust.

His halberd was a family heirloom, passed down to him by his father on the day he had received his first commission, and like many such weapons it was enchanted. The steel blade never needed to be polished or sharpened, and the small runes carved into the edge bestowed it with greater strength and cutting power than any mundane blade. It carved through the wood of the table like a hot knife through butter, biting deep into the wall beyond. Judging by the lack of any pained yelling, though, it had missed the assassin, so Franz scowled and prepared to pull it back out.

A sword, razor edged and swung with incredible force, swung down just in front of his nose with a faint humming noise. It bit into the wooden haft of his weapon and cut straight through without stopping, leaving the blade of the halberd embedded in the table and Franz with nothing more than a useless length of wood in his hands. Cursing, the captain flung himself sideways, turning to size up this second aggressor with a professional's eyes.

Kaitlyn. It was Kaitlyn, her green eyes intent on him and her slender hand clutching the hilt of the sword with a practiced ease. But Kaitlyn had never received any military training, he was sure of that, certainly not enough to wield a sword with so much confidence. He didn't have time to question things beyond that, as the woman that could not possibly be his wife stepped forwards and slammed the heavy shield in her other hand (where the hell had she been hiding that?) into his face with brutal strength.

He staggered backwards, the world spinning before his eyes and blood running out his face. His nose was evidently broken, and the burning pain that seemed to be radiating from that section of his face contrasted sharply with the icy feeling spreading out from his thigh. It seemed that earlier wound the elf had inflicted was rather more serious than he had expected. Was he using a poisoned blade? If so, then the fight needed to end quickly, so he could find help before the venom had a chance to cripple him entirely.

Roaring a wordless oath, Franz dropped the now-useless length of wood he held and tore his secondary weapon free from the sheathe on his belt. It was a short sword, more of an oversized dagger than a military weapon, and as expected the flash of light on the cold steel was enough to catch his opponent's attention, emerald eyes flickering down to take note of it for the briefest instant. Baring his teeth, Franz reached out with his other hand and snatched up one of the chairs that had previously been sitting next to the dining room table, bringing it around in a move than was halfway between a strike and a throw. The attack was one more suited for a bar-room brawl than a serious fight, but it accomplished what he wanted it to and sent the woman wearing his wife's face staggering backwards with a foul curse.

Seizing the advantage, he flung himself forwards into a tackle, using the superior mass afforded by his build and the armour he wore to overbear his opponent and send both of them crashing to the ground. The woman's sword was flung away by the force of the impact, her shield trapped between them, and with an animal growl Franz raised the knife and brought it stabbing down towards her exposed throat.

She caught his arm in her sword hand with a grip like iron, halting the descent of the blade perhaps half an inch from the pale flesh of her vulnerable neck. There was far too much strength in her arm for someone of his wife's build, but the superior position he held still gave him the advantage, and as he leaned forwards and put his weight behind the knife it began to sink slowly down towards his enemy.

"What did you do to my wife?" He growled out, surprised to realize that he actually cared what the answer was. He might not get along with Kaitlyn, but she was still his wife, and if this murderous bitch had harmed so much as a hair on her head...

"You're far too predictable." The false-Kaitlyn said with a fierce smile, even as her arm shook with the effort of keeping the blade away from her jugular. "Captain Varning was the same way. Did you know that no matter what patrol route he took, he always stopped at the same camp-site on the third night?"

A feeling like ice water settled in Franz's gut. "What do you mean ' _was_ '?"

The murderer's smile only grew wider in response. Now it was fury that flooded Mott's veins, a white hot sense of vengeful anger that surged along his muscles and demanded violent retribution. He hadn't known Ryan Varning very well, but the man was a brother in arms and a good son, and this bitch had killed him. Roaring with anger, he put all of his force behind the dagger...

A gloved hand seized him by the hair and yanked his head up. Franz Mott had just enough time to realize his error, to recognize how the sense of anger and betrayal at the second attacker wearing Kaitlyn's face had led him to momentarily forget the _first_ one, before the cold steel of the elf's sword bit deep into his flesh and slashed open his throat.


	14. Act Four - A Night of Murder

Way of the Wicked Chapter 14

Fear hung over the Watch Fortress Balentyne like a suffocating fog. It coiled around the heart of every man and woman standing guard within, their weapons clenched in trembling fists and their hearts thundering at every noise or sudden movement. A full hundred seasoned warriors, reduced to cowering in the dark like frightened children, their sleep haunted by thoughts of masked killers and inexplicable disasters. They were far from cowards, for no soul without the fortitude and will to stand against the darkness would have ever volunteered for assignment to the Watch Wall, but all their training and experience had been focused against external foes. They expected to fight monsters and barbarians, to hold the line against the onslaught of whatever slavering beast decided to crawl down out of the northern wastes, to be able to count on their brothers and sisters in arms to watch their backs and support their efforts just as they supported their comrades in turn.

But this foe, whoever or whatever it truly was, did not conform to that experience. It was cold and quiet, slinking through the halls of the castle like a hungry ghost, turning men against each other and laughing at their pathetic attempts to guard against its progress. There had been few sightings to build any kind of real impression from, but all of those held some measure of common ground that swiftly consumed the thoughts of those who knew them. Pointed ears and violet eyes told of elves, wielding foul magic that allowed them to walk through walls and become as silent and invisible as the air itself. Soldiers were often a superstitious lot as it was, and in the face of mounting evidence many of them turned their thoughts to the old tales they had heard, stories of the Ice Elves in their cities of northern frost. It had been many years since last conflict had occurred between the two races, but in the face of the current troubles many resolved to hold iron close to their hearts and linger near roaring fires or other sources of heat, both conditions that popular legend held were repellant to the winter fey.

In the past, the garrison had always been able to rely upon their commanders to turn back the onslaught and steel their resolve against whatever new threat assailed them, but as the days passed they could only watch as those pillars of resistance crumbled and faded one by one. Captain Varning, the young and handsome commander of the scouts, had ridden off one day on a routine patrol with half a dozen veteran rangers at his side and simply never returned. Captain Mott, gruff and professional but respected for his lethal skill, had been slain within the walls of his own home, his beautiful wife nowhere to be found. Perhaps worst of all had been the fate that befell Captain Barhold, for when his men had finally managed to break down the sturdy and thoroughly locked door to his room they had found him dead in his bed, his own sword shoved through his chest with such force that it had embedded itself in the stone floor below.

Captain Eddarly alone had survived the slaughter of the officers, his devoted soldiers organizing an impromptu retinue of bodyguards that followed him wherever he went and stood vigilant against any possible threat, but though his body still lived those who saw him could not help but think of a walking corpse. Zack had always been the most approachable of the officers, never drawing a distinction between himself and the men he served with and always ready to exchange banter with his trademark roguish smile. With the news of Captain Mott's death, though, he had become a changed man. No longer were his eyes bright with laughter, but cold and hard like those of some predatory beast. He moved differently, spoke differently, and were it not for the absolute familiarity with which he conducted himself some of the men might have been tempted to think of him as someone else altogether, or perhaps some grim shade of vengeance possessing their captain's body.

Still, none could doubt that he attended to his duties with an almost maniacal zeal, motivating his soldiers through personal example and quiet talk of bloody vengeance on whoever or whatever had slain their comrades. Some wondered to themselves if their beloved Captain might be driving himself a bit too hard, risking burnout and self-destruction in the grip of this relentless obsession, but on the whole the general opinion was that even such a bitter end was preferable by far than following his comrades into a victim's death. It was an example that many might have chosen to follow, casting aside their own lives and happiness in the pursuit of relentless and furious vengeance, were it not for the other example they had been given to follow.

Few had ever paid much attention to the theological implications of being blessed by heaven. There was an understanding that such divine attention marked one out as being of special worth and potential in some way, a vague belief that such a mark would naturally come with a measure of supernatural power, but what precisely it would actually _mean_ for the soul in question was never something that the majority of people ever really thought to wonder about. Today, they had their answer in the personage of Lord Thomas Havelyn, Paladin-Knight of Mitra.

Where he went, so too did the light of faith and hope, the love and protection of the Beneficent Sun descending from on high to touch the hearts of all those who saw him. In his presence fear and doubt seemed to fade away, and when he moved on those left behind turned to their duties with new fire burning in their hearts. His words dispelled fear and inspired courage in flagging souls, and his touch brought blessed relief from the pain and stress of constant vigilance and duty. At his side walked Father Donnagin, the two of them making constant rounds of the fortress and dispensing aid and advice to all those who needed it, and their words and presence became talismans of faith to those under their command, sacred icons held in the heart and mind to turn aside doubt and fear. The soldiers of Balentyne had always respected and admired their commander, but since the onset of their troubles many of them had started to view him as barely a step below outright divinity.

Personally, Thomas found the whole thing vaguely ridiculous. He'd just finished blessing one of the soldiers, reciting a small prayer over the man and his weapon while the rest of the small squad looked on, and something about the way that they stared at him made him want to grab the boy by the shoulders and shake him until such foolish notions were thoroughly dislodged. Instead, he just returned their salutes, muttered something vaguely encouraging then turned around and marched off at a speed which the uncharitable might describe as fleeing.

"I know it makes you uncomfortable, but try to put up with it." Althus said, hurrying along in his wake with an amused smile on his face. The priest had taken to following him around over the past few days, ostensibly in order to help administer to the spiritual needs of the garrison in the most effective manner. That it would mean he was on hand to assist his old friend if the mysterious assassin made an attempt on the commander's life was purely a fortunate side benefit. "Mitra calls us to be the lights in the darkness, and if that means we must be seen as figures of inspirational piety rather than mere men, then such is our lot in life."

"It just seems so... ignorant." Thomas muttered in response, careful to keep his voice pitched low so that none of the soldiery would hear him. There was slim chance of that, as the sound of his booted feet echoing through the stone corridors of the keep would drown out most other noise he might make, but it still didn't hurt to be careful. "I'm not some divine saviour descended from the heavens to right all wrongs and save the day. I'm a man just like any other, here to defend the borders so that my family can rest easy at night. That the Shining Lord has blessed me with the power and learning to do so effectively is a gift I am truly grateful for, but it doesn't make me some pillar of absolute virtue."

"True men rarely are." Althus said easily, tucking his hands behind his back as they strode side by side through the halls. "We have the potential for such goodness, but it is hardly our natural state of being. Virtue is something we must work towards, corruption a foe to be guarded against with ceaseless vigilance, but both of those make success something truly worth celebrating. I doubt the Victor himself was free of doubt or weakness, even on the morning of his ascension."

The priest paused there, allowing his companion a moment or two to absorb the words and consider their meaning. That was another thing that struck Thomas as slightly ridiculous from time to time; that Althus should be the one delivering a sermon to _him_ , rather than the other way around. The priest didn't have so much as a single grey hair on his head, while Thomas had long since seen his own beard turn the colour of old iron, but it seemed that wisdom and insight were no longer the exclusive providence of the old these days. That was good in many ways, for he knew that he would have to retire before too long and return to his familial estates to live out the rest of his life, and the idea that those left behind were just as intelligent and resourceful as he had been was a source of comfort. Even so, he couldn't deny that it was vaguely irritating at times, to be lectured by a man at least a decade his junior.

"Still, you're doing a good job. I think you should be resting a little more, but despite your doubts you've held this garrison together when a lesser man would have faltered. Remember that, when you start doubting your own ability." Althus continued a moment later, once it was clear that he wasn't going to get an immediate response. "On which note, I believe the good Mama Giuseppe will be about to serve up downstairs. It will do the men good to see us eating with them, I think."

"It would do them better to see us catch this dastard." Thomas grunted in response, but he none the less turned towards the nearest staircase at the reminder. Mama Giuseppe's venison stew was not a treat to be lightly missed, not even by one who normally frowned on acts of culinary indulgence as a waste of precious resources. Besides, it would only be polite to see the old lady and offer his personal thanks before she returned to Aldencross, just as he did every week when she came to cook a special treat for the garrison. Her own sons might have long since left Balentyne when their careers took them south, but the good lady had continued her culinary tradition regardless, and it offered enough of a morale boost to his soldiers that he was prepared to allow it to continue even when the rest of the garrison was sealed tight in an attempt to prevent any intruders from gaining access.

"True enough." Althus said with a sigh. "I take it we have not had any further success on that front?"

To that, Thomas could only respond with a scowl and a shake of his head. It was maddening how utterly unable he was to come to grips with the monster that was stalking the halls of his castle. He'd poured all of his time and effort into the task for days now, relying on the gifts of the Shining Lord to keep him healthy and focused despite the complete lack of sleep, and had come up with precisely nothing. The only evidence he'd managed to pick up on was a faintly malevolent aura that sometimes hung around the corridors and battlements of the fortress, as though something of great malice had passed through recently, but there was always enough traffic in the area in question to make identifying the culprit basically impossible. He'd made a habit of subtly inspecting the aura of his soldiers whenever he visited one of the duty stations, just in case the infiltrator was impersonating one of them for nefarious purposes, but thus far had come up with nothing. A more systematic review would be impossible without pulling troops away from the defenses for longer than he would be comfortable with, and would badly damage morale besides.

"Whatever elf-magic our intruder is using seems to be damnably good at evading detection." He admitted at last, as the two of them emerged from the ground floor of the keep and into the main courtyard, heading for the stairs that would take them to the mess hall. Passing guards, many heading in the same direction as them and likely for the same reason paused to salute, but aside from brisk nods the Lord-Commander didn't respond.

"If they _are_ elves." Althus said mildly, and Thomas had to hold back a groan. The priest had been insisting for days that there was more to this than simple elven infiltrators from the far north, suspecting the existence of some kind of infernal cult intent on destabilizing the border of the country. What gain even power-mad devil worshippers might see in such a goal he hadn't been able to say, but he'd held tightly onto the idea all the same, like a dog worrying at a bone.

"Please, my friend, stop this mad theorizing." Thomas said instead, again making sure to speak in a quiet tone so as not to allow any of the nearby guards to overhear what they were discussing. "There hasn't been a confirmed agent of the Adversary in Talingarde for _decades_. You want me to keep an open mind, I know, and I will, but latching onto one particular interpretation of our current troubles without any supporting evidence doesn't help. Unless you _do_ have evidence that you'd like to share?"

Althus shook his head, but that was hardly a surprise. The priest was too devoted to his God and his duty to ever allow potentially serious evidence such as that escape the light of day. It was that sense of duty that had driven him to administer to a border garrison in the first place, even though he had enough seniority and experience to likely be a deacon by now if he had remained in the south, and if there was one thing about him that could be depended upon it was that.

"Just a vague feeling... a premonition, maybe. Dreams of fire." He murmured, his gaze pensive. "You know as well as I that our lord is not always obvious about his meaning when he chooses to send us signs."

"I also know that too many mistakes have been made over the years by people who confused dreams with divine messages." Thomas replied in a heavy tone. "I don't mean to dismiss your insights, father, for I am sure there have indeed been times when blessed Mitra has chosen to communicate with the faithful in such fashion, but there is little we can do about it in any case that we are not already doing."

Althus didn't reply, evidently lost in thought, and after a moment the paladin gave up on that line of conversation and turned his attention back to their surroundings. They had just arrived in the mess hall, where the servants were indeed preparing to serve up the afternoon meal, and as expected just about every off-duty soldier in the garrison was there already waiting. Heads turned at his arrival, and several of the troops waiting in line made to step aside and make room for their commander, but he shook his head and gestured for them to stay where they were. Privileges of rank or not, his own sense of justice wouldn't allow him to cut in ahead of those who had been waiting here already, not if it meant forcing those brave men and women to wait even a moment longer before they could sate their hunger.

As he joined the rear of the queue, though, he couldn't help but frown slightly. There was something about this whole situation that seemed somewhat off, as though there was some critical detail that was slipping past his understanding. He'd been a soldier too long to ignore those silent warnings when they came, but he couldn't work out what precisely it was about the scene in front of him that was bothering him. Certainly there was nothing here that he would not expect to see on a normal day; Mama Giuseppe standing by the large pot of stew, the servants doling out cutlery and drinks as the soldiers filed past them in turn, the dozens of men and women seated at the various tables, ready to start their meal once he'd received his own and said a prayer of some kind...

Everything clicked into place in a moment, and before he was even entirely sure what he was doing Lord Havelyn stepped out of the queue and was striding forwards. Faces turned to look at him in some confusion as he advanced, but none of them displayed any real signs of comprehension even as they divined the true focus of his attention - the stew itself.

" **Hold!** " He roared, putting all the force and authority he had learned in his career into that single order. The shout cut through the low hubbub of conversation throughout the mess hall with ease, and a shocked silence fell as every eye turned to look in his direction. "Do not touch the stew, not yet!"

A quick glance at Mama Giuseppe confirmed that she had absolutely no idea what was going on, and that her soul was unmarked by the taint of the lower planes. That was something of a relief, for he did not know what he would do if it turned out that the kindly old woman had been harmed, or worse involved in this whole affair somehow. Still, just because she was innocent did not mean that her gift was.

As he advanced, the paladin murmured the words to an old prayer, calling upon the gifts Mitra bestowed upon his champions. The divine miracles of heaven often bore a striking resemblance to the magic wielded by wizards and other students of the arcane, but Thomas had never been one to turn something like that into an accusation of heresy or worse. Instead, he was simply grateful that such resources were his to call upon, for even the most minor cantrip could be of significant use in the right situation.

Before his eyes, the thick stew in the pot seemed to blacken and curdle, small tendrils of vile green-black smoke coiling around each other in the depths of the pot. He didn't know precisely what that portended, the exact alchemical makeup of whatever it was that had been added to the stew before it had been served, but right now specifics were of a distinctly secondary concern. What mattered was the truth now displayed obviously before his eyes.

"Poison." He said flatly, and all across the mess hall troopers pushed their bowls away from them as though they had just seen the stew transform into vicious snakes. "Someone has poisoned the stew."

Mama Giuseppe sat down heavily, her expression one of utter shock and dawning horror, and almost without thinking several of the soldiers converged upon her to offer reassurance and support. Their eyes glinted with furious anger, directed not at the kindly old woman before them but at the foul villains that would abuse such a kind-hearted soul for their own ends.

Shaking his head, Thomas stepped back, gesturing for one of the servants to come forward and dispose of the tainted food. He turned and looked around the hall, seeking confirmation that he had managed to issue his warning before anyone had actually started eating. Fortunately it seemed that this was the case, for everyone remained seated rather than crying out in horror or begging Father Donnagin for salvation, and he spared a moment to utter a quiet prayer of thanks to Mitra. He should have seen it earlier, realized the weakness and potential threat that the fort's tradition represented. In the course of a normal day soldiers came and went from the mess hall as their duties and appetite demanded, so that no more than a dozen were eating at any one time. In contrast, the weekly stew was so popular that just about everyone who could make it to the mess hall queued up for a meal, and many of those on duty held an arrangement with a friend to bring them a bowl they could consume without leaving their posts. The commander took a moment to consider the magnitude of the disaster he had narrowly averted, and had to suppress a violent shudder.

"This has gone far enough." He said flatly. With swift, economical motions he indicated ten of the watching soldiers, those he knew from past experience to be particularly skilled and reliable. "You men, I have a special assignment for you. Take the remaining horses from the stables and ride for the other fortresses and nearby towns. Inform them that I am declaring a state of emergency and requesting all available reinforcements as quickly as they can be mustered. Someone is attempting to break the Watch Wall, and I will _not_ allow them to succeed. Go, quickly."

The soldiers saluted grimly and turned to leave the room at a flat run, the sergeant among them already barking out assignments and destinations to the others as they went. Thomas watched them leave and had to suppress the urge to curse. He hadn't wanted to take such measures, for sending away even ten men represented a significant hit to the castle's ability to defend itself and might very well be what his invisible enemy wanted in the first place, but he could not in good conscience hold off any longer. It would still be a matter of weeks before reinforcements arrived in any serious number, but detachments from the local towns and other watch fortresses shouldn't take more than a few days to arrive. And if the worse should happen and the fortress _was_ breached, then the borderlands would be at least slightly more prepared for whatever came next.

"Now," he said, turning back to the servants, most of whom looked likewise shocked and betrayed at the thought of being unwilling accomplices to such a crime, "is anyone missing?"

In truth he expected that any missing servant would probably be found dead in a quiet corner somewhere, coldly removed so that the saboteur could impersonate them and get close enough to taint the stew without suspicion. Still, even if his investigation would likely be fruitless that didn't mean it wasn't worth pursuing. To do anything less than his uttermost would be to fail in his duty, and if there was one thing that Lord Thomas Havelyn would not allow, it was that.

-/-

If there was one thing that any soldier in Balentyne knew, it was that you had to be a very deep sleeper in order to get any real degree of rest in the barracks. Common courtesy meant that no-one held loud or boisterous conversations during the long hours of the night, but even so the sheer noise created by seventy odd soldiers crammed into a single large room was more than enough to keep a light sleeper jolting awake at inconvenient moments throughout the night.

Mira lay in the bunk she had claimed and listened to the sound of snoring. It was loud and omnipresent, a constant background rumble that filled the air and drowned out just about any other sound in the room. Any serious disturbance would of course draw the attention of the sentries assigned to stand watch over their resting comrades, but during the night those soldiers retreated from the barracks and stood vigil in the corridor outside, driven by a respect for privacy as well as a need to discipline anyone who might wake their slumbering comrades by moving through the area with insufficient care. All of which meant that, right now, she was likely the only person in the room who was still awake.

Slowly, moving with a stealth that was driven more by habit than any real expectation of discovery, she pulled aside the thin blanket covering her and slid out of the bed. It had taken some time for her to set this up properly, to identify and remove a likely soldier before claiming the vacant bed for her own. The individual bunks were separated from one another by thin sheets in the interests of privacy, which meant that she didn't have to worry too much about soldiers from distant parts of the barracks identifying her as being in the wrong area so long as she moved confidently, but it had been something of a challenge working out how to fool those who were assigned to the nearest bunks and might very well know her chosen target on a personal level she could never hope to fake. Eventually she had just compromised and pretended to be asleep, just one more soldier taking an early night so as to be fresh and ready come the morning, and consequently unable to be questioned at any length by potentially suspicious neighbours.

Now, though, she had to move. That damnable paladin had forced her hand, both by detecting her efforts with the poison and by sending for reinforcements. That none would arrive before she was done with her work was largely irrelevant, for the alarm would still be raised in the surrounding territories and the forces stationed there would be on the alert for any attack moving in from the north. She doubted that anything other than the Watch Wall could even hope to stop Sakkarot's army, but that didn't mean they couldn't achieve some minor victories by slowing the horde down and bleeding it of numbers in a dozen minor engagements. The advantage of surprise was too important to neglect so easily, and that meant she had to accelerate her plans.

A shadow on the sheet-wall next to her betrayed the arrival of Timeon just before he pushed the cloth aside and stepped into her makeshift room, the ex-squire already fully equipped and ready to go. Pushing down her annoyance at being shown up in such a fashion, Mira quickly pulled her arms and armour out from under the bed and set about getting ready. She would have preferred to have come at this engagement in much the same way as she had the others to date, striking out from the Lord's Dalliance via the secret tunnel and drawing blood only in times and places that suited her, but such an option presented difficulties that were no longer worth the risks involved. There were too many sentries standing watch for her to move freely through the castle now, the garrison having been thrown into a state of heightened alert specifically designed to catch people like her. The energy it required from the soldiers meant that it was not a state that could be sustained for long, but she simply didn't have the time to wait out the alert as she would have preferred.

At least it had happened now, and not a week earlier. She'd been working at infiltrating and undermining Balentyne for just under three weeks now, which meant that Sakkarot should be in position to strike. It hopefully wouldn't take him long to get here after he saw the signal - the valley he was camping in was perhaps an hour's march away by human standards, and if he had sentries looking for the signal flare then she would just have to trust that the bugbear force would be able to make the trip in a similar amount of time. Before that happened, she had to thin the garrison as much as she could and open the gates. An easy enough assignment in theory, but she was too experienced to believe that it would work so well in practice.

Frowning, she tightened the last strap on her armour and set her sword down on the abandoned bed, clearing away the illusionary disguise of the murdered soldier with a thought. It wasn't like anyone would believe her innocence if they stumbled across this scene soon in any case, and hiding the evidence of how she accomplished her infiltration seemed like a wise precaution to take. That done, she reached into her pack and withdrew a pair of small cylindrical cases, perfectly suited for holding maps or other scrolls.

The merchants of Aldencross did not carry a significant stock of magical supplies at the best of times, aware that there were few people in the local population who had the resources or desire to acquire such things, but that didn't mean they were entirely bereft of arcane treasures. The local sage, for example, often spent his time scribing a variety of minor spells onto carefully prepared scrolls, in order to sell them for a fair profit the next time one of the regular merchant caravans came through the town. It had been relatively easy to persuade him to produce and then part with these two, accomplished through the time honored method of gold and a convincing story, in this case one about an old relative who was seeking to expand his library of arcane secrets and was interested in any spells he could potentially acquire.

This particular example of the arcane arts was not an especially blatant or showy one, but one of the lessons that Master Thorn had impressed upon her was that it was not always the most obvious spells that held the most power, especially when used by one who could muster a bit of creative thought in their application. Most people would not have a great deal of use for something that could render their motions preternaturally quiet for a few minutes, but then most people were not saboteurs intent on enhancing their ability to kill unfortunate targets with speed and discretion. The spell wouldn't completely drown out the noise she made, but in practice making an ordinarily loud noise whisper-quiet sufficed perfectly well for most purposes.

With care, she unrolled the scroll and studied the arcane writing on the parchment, grateful that she had taken the time to study this thing in advance rather than trying to puzzle it out in the field. The torches mounted around the walls and lanterns hanging from the ceiling gave the barracks enough light that she could just about read the peculiar curving letters, but trying to do it for the first time in such conditions would have been a foolish risk and likely created a wicked headache besides. She found the start of the invocation and, speaking as quietly as she could without disrupting her pronunciation, began to recite it. As she spoke the words, the letters on the parchment began to glow faintly, and there was a sense of faint pressure in the air around her, almost as though she was underwater. Fortunately the magic was simple enough that it took only a few moments to finish reciting the whole thing, and when she was done the ink on the parchment had faded away altogether.

Raising an eyebrow, she looked over at Timeon, the intended target of the spell. The squire nodded to her, then reached over and rapped on the wooden frame of the bed a couple of times, the sound deadened as though heard through a significant quantity of water. Smiling, Mira tossed the used scroll aside and drew the second one, this time focusing her intent on her own body. The spells would only last for a few minutes, but that was more than enough time for what she had in mind. When that too was complete, she set the scroll aside and drew her sword, marveling at the complete silence even as she swung it through the air a few times. Idly, she recalled the words Tiadora had spoken to her back in Branderscar prison, during their first meeting. Magic truly was a wondrous tool, if correctly employed.

Still, she had no time for the indulgence of silent marvel. With a nod and a few quick gestures to Timeon, she dispatched him to one side of the barracks, then turned her attention back to her own task. With the training that Lord Thorn had bestowed upon her augmented by the magical muffling of the scrolls, the soldier in the next bed over had precisely no chance of hearing her approach, and likely wouldn't have stirred even if she had.

For a moment, Mira hesitated, staring down at the slumbering form of her would-be victim. There was no way around it - what she planned now was murder, pure and simple. She might have argued against the reasoning that had originally sent her to Branderscar, might have dismissed the legitimacy of the prohibitions against worshiping Asmodeus or blaspheming against the Shining Lord, but if she went through with this there was absolutely no doubt that she would deserve the punishment she had so narrowly escaped in the prison. Could she really do this; take the life of someone not so different to the woman she had once been, without allowing her the chance to defend her own life or even know why she had to die? She could still walk away from this, turn around and leave Balentyne, leave the watch-tower standing strong against the coming storm and her mission incomplete. Likely she would pay for her disobedience, quite possibly with her life once Adrastus Thorn caught up to her, but wouldn't the security of the realm be worth it? She'd always been prepared to die for Talingarde before... why not now?

 _Don't be a fool_ , she thought with gritted teeth. _This is... well, not the only way, but it remains the path you have chosen. You gave your word to obey Adrastus Thorn and seek the ascension of Asmodeus, and both of those demand that you go through with this. And... be honest with yourself. You might care about this woman's life, and the lives of those sleeping nearby, but you care about your own a lot more. Loyalty to Talingarde as it is will never result in anything more than poverty and death, not after all you've done. Your life, and the quality of that life, now depends entirely on the success of this plan. So stop hesitating and get on with it._

Eyes flashing, a touch of steel in the hard lines of her clenched jaw and gritted teeth, Mira raised her sword in a two-handed grip and brought it stabbing down. The sharpened steel punched straight through the body of the slumbering soldier without so much as slowing down, and the only evidence of the act left behind was the arc of vibrant blood that rose into the air as she pulled the blade free once more. Not bothering to wipe the gore from her blade or her armour, Mira turned and prowled along to the next bed in line.

In total, the butchery took perhaps five minutes. Five minutes of cold, relentless and completely silent murder, the anti-paladin moving methodically along the ranks of beds and driving her sword through hearts and throats with icy precision. Sometimes her victims died peacefully, exhaling silently as she removed the steel from their bodies and then lying still. Sometimes they thrashed and struggled, the noise of their violent movements dulled by the magical aura that surrounded her even as their panicking minds struggled to comprehend what was happening. Once or twice they actually woke up before she got to them, but even consciousness was of little help to unarmed, unarmored soldiers when they discovered an armed warrior standing above their prone forms. Those ones just took a few seconds longer to die, forcing her to linger for a moment and hold them down while the last gasps of life fled their bodies.

Slowly, the air began to fill with the unique and unmistakeable scent of death. Blood leaked from ruptured bodies and pooled on the floor, running between the flagstones like crimson rivers. Bowels loosened as death brought involuntary and total relaxation, staining the sheets an even fouler mixture of colour. Slowly, the omnipresent sound of breathing and snoring slackened away, one voice after another smothered by magic then falling silent forever, until the whole room became as quiet as the tomb it now was.

By the time she was finished, her forearms and her sword were completely covered in scarlet blood, as though she had literally bathed in a pool of the stuff. The rest of her was hardly much better, her face and chest splattered with faint droplets from particularly violent eruptions of gore and her booted feet leaving wet footprints behind her as she walked. Her mind drowned beneath icy detachment and murderous calm, she only realized she had come to the end of her bloody work when she moved to the next cubicle along and found Timeon there waiting for her, the occupant of the bed shuddering faintly in his death throes as the squire wiped his blade against the sheets.

They stood like that for a moment, two blood-drenched killers in the middle of the charnel house, trying to avoid the incredible stench by breathing through the mouth. Eventually, it was Mira who broke the silence, pitching her voice low just in case the magic had already worn off.

"We don't have much time before this is discovered." She said flatly, knowing that it would be minutes at best before someone outside noticed the smell and came to investigate. "Go and deal with the Wizard. I will take care of the priest and his acolytes. Then meet me by the gatehouse."

The squire nodded, his face pale beneath the mask of splattered blood, then turned to walk away. As he went, he drew the illusionary mask of a low-ranking soldier back over his body, counting on the magic to hide the bloodstains for long enough to get into the position he needed to be. Mira watched him go, reflecting on what else still needed to happen and working out the best plan of attack. There were still perhaps another twenty or thirty soldiers in the fortress, most scattered around in pairs and small groups, plus that damnable commander of theirs. Hopefully that would not be enough to hold back Sakkarot's forces... and if it looked like they might be, well, she would just have to intervene.

The fallen knight looked around at the scene of her bloodiest work yet, then turned and walked away. There was still much to do, and she was the only one who could do it.

Behind her, the room was completely silent, save for the faint patter of dripping blood.


	15. Act Four - Burning Balentyne Part 1

**Author Note** \- This chapter and the next were originally part of the same document, but for some reason I can't get it all to upload in one piece. So if the end of this one feels a little abrupt, that's why.

Way of the Wicked Chapter Fifteen

It was a dark, cloudless night, the light of the distant moon dying everything a faint shade of luminous silver. Mira let the door to the castle swing shut behind her and took a moment to appreciate the chill beauty of the landscape before her. Balentyne had been built to guard the eastern edge of Lake Tarik, where one of the few bridges built across the fast-flowing River Tyburn allowed easy access between the cultivated lands of the south and the largely wilderness expanse of the north. Over the centuries the river had slowly worn away at the hard stone that bordered the lake, slowly carving out a great chasm that split the country almost completely in two, until now you could step from the bridge and fall for a hundred feet or more before finally hitting the water far below.

Standing there, on the walls of the castle and facing out towards the north, Mira couldn't help but feel as though she stood on the edge of the world itself. The land simply dropped away beneath her, and the wind ran cold fingers through her hair that lent the whole scene an oddly peaceful and serene air. It was an illusion of course, but one pleasant enough to be worth indulging for a moment or two.

High above, there was a sharp _cracking_ noise, and the silvery light momentarily gave way to a brilliant scarlet radiance that stained the world with blood. Glancing up, Mira smiled at the sight, watching the last few sparks and whisks of smoke from the rocket's detonation fade away into the night air. It seemed Timeon had been successful in his mission. That was good, for the next few minutes were certain to be busy enough even without having to contend with the attentions of a fireball-flinging wizard running around the place. She'd never faced a student of the arcane on the battlefield before, and if she had her way she never would, for they were well known to be devastatingly powerful opponents if you gave them time to bring their magic into play.

Fortunately, all their learning didn't make them any less human, nor relieve them of a human's need for sleep. In some ways a Wizard had to get more rest than anyone else, since attempting the delicate tasks of binding magic to your will was difficult enough even without needing to contend with the perils of sleep deprivation or even a slight distraction. Knowing that, it would have made sense to place guards on the doors of the Wizard's quarters while he slept, so that he couldn't be surprised and murdered in the same way that Captain Barhold had been... but pure pragmatism was hardly the only concern in play when it came to protecting a wizard. She'd guessed that few of the garrison would be willing to spend all that much time around the slightly unsettling magister, perhaps reasoning that he could protect himself with his spells or simply not thinking about it on any conscious level. Whatever the precise reason, she'd gambled that there wouldn't have been enough of a guard to prevent Timeon reaching his target, and it seemed that she'd been right.

On the far side of the castle, the strident wailing of an alarm horn was beginning to sound. It echoed throughout the fortress, the sound slightly muffled and distorted by the thick walls but easily audible none the less. Perhaps someone had found the corpses in the barracks, or perhaps they were simply reacting to what had undeniably been some kind of signal being fired from the top levels of the keep. Either way, it was a sharp reminder that she couldn't afford to stand around here admiring the view for very much longer.

Turning, Mira hurried down the length of the wall surrounding Balentyne's central keep, calling upon the magic of her _circlet_ to wrap her in the guise of just another soldier. The darkness was her ally here, for the limited visibility would help to ensure that no-one was able to get a close look at her disguise, while her hurrying pace would hopefully mean that she didn't have to spend too much time next to anyone else. Blood had a very distinctive smell, after all, and she was practically covered in the stuff. Her disguise might prevent anyone from seeing it, but that didn't mean the rich scent wouldn't put someone on their guard, and if they were on their guard they were more likely to survive her attentions for long enough to sound the alarm. That would be a delay she simply didn't have time for right now.

Her destination lay just ahead of her; a secondary bridge, running from the main walls across to the upper level of the gatehouse on the northern shore. It was human-made, with none of the stern beauty and endless resilience of the main dwarf-made bridge below and likely without the ability to support nearly as much traffic, but that was an acceptable loss. The point of the second expanse was not to serve as a means of crossing the river, for there was no way to access it from the northern shore other than to literally scale the walls of the gatehouse and go over the roof. Instead, it served as a perfect firing position for the garrison's archers, giving them an unchecked field of fire along the entirety of the main bridge while protecting them from any retaliation by offering shelter behind the crenellations.

It was the kind of defensive depth that spoke of a mind so cautious as to be almost paranoid, but it was one that she had to admire on a professional level. The gatehouse was a difficult target to assault as it was, being equipped with numerous ballista to savage any approaching force and reinforced gates to bar any unauthorized passage. If an attacker brought up siege equipment to break the doors, they would have to do so while under fire from numerous arrow slits and cunningly positioned rock-droppers, and if they broke down the first set of doors the second would hold them long enough for the defenders to dump searing-hot sand all over them. If the enemy could overcome all of that, then they would still have to negotiate the drawbridge that had been built into the main crossing, and if they made it past that they would find themselves trapped on the bridge with no cover as the archers on the secondary bridge scythed them down with barrages of steel-tipped arrows.

Little wonder, then, that Sakkarot had not rated his horde as able to defeat such a fortification without serious help. The bugbear's had the advantages of overwhelming numbers and ferocious savagery, but places like Balentyne had been designed from the ground up to counter exactly those. Which was why Mira was here, to tilt the odds a little bit more in the warlord's favour.

She stepped out onto the secondary bridge with care, all too aware of how little protection there was against the howling wind if something should go wrong here. The crenellations on the right offered some shelter from arrows and the wind both, but there was nothing to the left except a vertical drop straight down to the water and rocks below, and she had no desire to end her burgeoning career smashed to a pulp on the unyielding ground. Gritting her teeth, she focused her attention on the welcoming bulk of the gatehouse up ahead and quickened her steps, aiming to cross as quickly as possible so she could get to the important task ahead of her.

There was a faint flash, the light of the moon reflecting from the cold steel of a weapon, and almost without thinking she raised her shield in front of her. She'd taken the weapon from the barracks on her way back through after dealing with the slumbering priest, looking for anything that would help her survive long enough to deal with the remaining defenders, and whoever had owned it before her had evidently believed in investing in good quality equipment. The reinforced steel shuddered violently as the arrow slammed into it, and Mira had to brace herself to prevent the conveyed force from knocking her over, but such things were of minor concern compared to the fact that _someone had just tried to kill her_. Biting off a snarl, Mira tilted the shield for a moment and glanced at the slender projectile embedded in it. Much as she had suspected, the positioning and angle told of a shot that would have taken her clean in the throat without the aid of her last-minute defense, and she kept the shield raised even as she turned her gaze upon the gatehouse beyond.

"What the hell was that!" She yelled, the cold stillness of the night carrying her words across the remaining distance to whoever was waiting there for her. She had to act as her false identity would in this situation, or else the disguise was pointless, and right now she felt it was perfectly reasonable for the humble soldier to be both scared and outraged by such a near brush with death. "You bastards, you nearly took my throat out!"

"Nearly?" The reply came back a moment later, the words flavored with a cold menace she had rarely heard before. "Then I must have missed. Too bad."

From atop the gatehouse roof, her assailant moved forwards into the moonlight, one hand already reaching for another arrow from the quiver carried on his back. It was Captain Eddarly, the last of the surviving officers, his shoulder-length blond hair held back from his face by a simple band and his dark eyes filled with a hateful chill. Mira didn't even have to fake the way her eyes widened in shock at the sight of him, or at the beautiful wooden bow he held in his hands.

"Captain?" She called out, desperately trying to work out why the officer was apparently intent on killing what he should only see as one of his own soldiers. "The hell are you doing? I'm not an enemy, I'm one of yours."

Eddarly didn't even pause, setting his new arrow to the bow and drawing it back in a single smooth motion. "One of mine wouldn't be dripping blood onto the stonework as she walked." He said simply, and Mira strangled a curse as she glanced back along the bridge behind her. There were indeed small splotches of gore stretched out behind her in a faint trail, revealed once they were beyond the reach of her disguise magic, but they were small and far from obvious. Had he truly managed to notice them from where he was? There was just about no chance that even the most eagle-eyed sentry could have spotted them and then decided how to react so quickly. He must have been expecting some kind of infiltrator, keeping a careful eye on those around him to make sure he caught anyone who thought to try such a tactic against him.

Another arrow flashed through the nighttime air, striking the dead centre of her shield with enough force that Mira actually did stagger backwards. She managed to control her motion before the stumble sent her to the floor or falling off the side of the bridge and into the void, but it was far closer than she would have liked,

"Tell me." Eddarly called in an even, almost conversational tone. "Whose blood is that? Who did you kill this time?"

 _Deceit is evidently not a viable option. Instead, let's see if I can unbalance him with audacity_. With that thought in mind, Mira dispelled the illusion hiding her form, displaying the blood stains and the looted equipment for all to see. She waited for an instant, giving her observers time to realize what it was they were seeing, then replied.

"Honestly, I lost count." She said, straightening back up after her stumble and putting as much malicious amusement as she could into her voice. "How many people did you have in the barracks? Oh, and that fat priest you all seem to like so much, I guess he counts too."

Eddarly didn't react to the answer, his face an immobile mask, but he was not the only defender posted at the gatehouse. Most had been hidden from view inside the stone building or because she could not see the whole of the roof from her current position, but the sounds of arrows striking steel and poisoned words being exchanged had drawn them nearer. There were at least four more archers on the top of the gatehouse next to their captain, already taking up position behind the crenellations and aiming their weapons in her direction. At the far end of the bridge were two soldiers in heavy armour, carrying halberds and denying access to the heavy door that lead inside the gatehouse itself. Beyond that, careful inspection earlier in the week had indicated that she could likely expect another four men inside, manning some of the defenses and guarding the winches that controlled the drawbridge and portcullis. Ten trained warriors, all in all, plus a captain who apparently had the eyes of a hawk. Hardly a fair fight, but she supposed there probably wasn't enough room over there to fit a full platoon.

"Well, it seems you've got quite a lot to pay for, then." Eddarly said at last, his voice as cold as the northern ice. "Kill her."

It was an order that his men were only too happy to obey, the archers unleashing a storm of projectiles almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. But Mira was already moving, throwing herself into a headlong sprint along the length of the bridge, and that was enough to ruin their aim. Two crossbow bolts buzzed by her ear with a sound like angry wasps, followed a moment later by the light chiming noise of arrows deflecting away from the stone bridge at her feet. It was an understandable failure, she supposed - after all, how many enemies would you expect to react to finding themselves outnumbered and out positioned by _charging_? It was a tactic that she herself would not normally have considered, but there were two factors here that made it a viable choice.

The first was that, quite simply, she had no other realistic option. The signal rocket had been launched, and that meant that Sakkarot's army was on its way. She had to open the gates before they arrived, and that meant seizing control of the gatehouse. The nature of the bridge and the layout of the defenses made this the only way to access the gatehouse, and if she retreated now all Eddarly would have to do in order to thwart her mission was stay right where he was and keep the gate closed. He was almost certainly smart enough to know that as well, which made her failure to get to him before he started going everywhere with a bodyguard doubly annoying.

The second factor was just who and what she was. Trained soldiers with the advantage of numbers and a defensive position were a formidable threat, yes, but she was an anointed champion of Hell. The blessings of Asmodeus and the might of the lower realms flowed through her body and soul, infusing her with strength and power beyond the dreams of mortal men. She was a long way from reaching the theoretical peak of her infernal potential, but what strength she had already received would be more than enough to deal with this rabble. Well, that was the hope anyway.

She kept her shield raised as she charged, and that proved to be a wise decision as Eddarly once again demonstrated his remarkable marksmanship. The Captain drew two arrows from his quiver, setting them both to his bow at once in the sort of demonstration she might have expected to see at a country fair rather than on the battlefield. Trick or not, he was evidently good enough to use such an unconventional tactic successfully, and while the first arrow deflected off her shield with a harsh chime, the second found a home in her exposed shoulder. The reinforced metal plates of her armour robbed the shot of much of its force, but she still grunted as the sharpened steel arrowhead dug into her flesh and fiery pain blossomed out from the wound. She didn't allow that to slow her, however, for what was the pain of such a minor injury compared to the agonies she had undergone during her training, or the tortures that might await her if she failed? Instead, she drew upon the pain, using it to fuel her anger and hate as she barreled forwards, the infernal power rising up within her body to answer her silent command.

The two soldiers guarding the door shifted their stances as she approached, spreading their legs wider to lend them extra stability and holding their halberds ready. Their intent was obvious, to deliver powerful blows the moment she got within range to either kill her or knock her off the bridge, making full use of their position and the extra reach afforded by their longer weapons. Against another enemy it probably would have worked, but Mira was a divine champion of Hell, her blood-stained form surrounded in a burning aura of infernal power. It went ahead of her as she charged, invisible to the eye but an undeniable influence upon the soul, washing over the guards as she crossed the last few yards between them and showing them the true depths of their folly in opposing her.

Trained soldiers possessed of enough courage and willpower could likely shrug off such an influence with a few moments concentration, gritting their teeth and fighting on through the illusion until they managed to control the sudden spike of fear in their hearts. Unfortunately, neither of these men had even that much time to spare, and in the face of an avatar of the Pit they hesitated. Not for long; barely an instant passed before muscle memory and training sent their weapons slicing forwards to intercept their incoming foe, but even the briefest of pauses was enough to doom them both.

Mira's sword, the gleaming steel stained a rich crimson by the accumulated gore of her prior victims, flashed down in a deadly arc and cut a deep trench in the first guard's flesh, opening him from chin to groin in a single moment. He gargled wetly, choking on his own blood, but Mira had already dismissed him as a concern in favor of turning her attentions to his compatriot. This close, the length of the halberd was a disadvantage, the desperate strike hitting her arm with the wooden haft rather than the sharpened blade on the end. The soldier cursed and made to adjust his grip, but she was too fast, slamming her shield into his face and torso with a short motion that crushed his nose in an explosion of gore. Staggering backwards, the soldier cried out in pain, and then in fear as his back foot missed the edge of the bridge. He toppled off into the abyss, his scream trailing off then ceasing altogether as he struck the cliff wall with a wet crack.

The door into the gatehouse was meant to be kept shut and locked at all times, opened only to allow authorized people when necessary, but the room beyond was one of the most poorly ventilated in the entire castle. The fires that heated the cauldron of sand had to be kept burning at all hours of the day and night in order to make sure that the defenses were ready for use at a moment's notice, and the windows were only large enough to allow archers to fire out at enemies massing beyond. As a result the door was usually left open in hopes of coaxing a breeze that might alleviate the stifling heat inside, a mistake that would cost those within dearly this night. Even as the first soldier collapsed to the floor at her feet in a pile of his own blood and entrails, Mira raised one armoured boot and delivered a harsh kick to the reinforced wood, forcing the door to slam open with great violence.

There were indeed four soldiers inside, three men and one woman, their heavier armour removed so as to avoid boiling to death but their weapons still sharp and held ready. At the sight of her framed in the doorway, though, their wielders hesitated. They were brave children of Talingarde, veterans of the endless conflict with the barbarians and monsters that laired to the north, but none of them had ever faced anything quite like this. An infernal knight, her armour and weapon covered in the blood of their kin, surrounded by an aura of dark power and standing over the butchered corpse of the first foe to get in her way. For a brief moment, they looked at her and knew fear, and Mira smiled at the sight of it. Then she attacked.

The woman was closest, having gone for a crossbow from the racks of such weapons along the walls and been in the process of loading it when the attack came. Panicked at finding herself so close to such a murderous foe she raised the weapon and pulled the trigger as quickly as she could, but fear robbed her of the skill needed to do so smoothly and made her betray her intentions before she had even moved a muscle. Mira twitched her head to one side and the bolt sailed cleanly passed her ear, flying off into the gorge to be swallowed by the darkness. Before the soldier could reload or even start to comprehend her failure the knight brought her sword around once more, biting deep into one of the hands that held the empty weapon and slicing open veins and arteries alike in a spray of gore. The soldier shrieked and fell to her knees, the sight seemingly enough to shock her companions out of their momentary paralysis.

Two of them charged, ferocious roars on their lips and short stabbing swords held in hands that shook from fear and anger alike. Mira brought her shield around and parried both attacks, sending the two men staggering away from the force of the impact and running the first clean through the chest with her sword before he could recover. The second was quicker, and as she pulled her blade free of his companion's gut and turned to face him he lashed out, viper-quick. The short sword did not have enough reach for him to deliver a truly serious wound, but the tip of his blade still bit into one of her cheeks and left a thin trail of blood streaming out behind it in the air. Mira gritted her teeth, tasting the sharp coppery tang of her own blood from the facial wound, and cut his head from his shoulders with a single swipe.

The fourth soldier had delayed long enough to pick up a shield from next to his seat, and now he faced her from across the chamber. Having seen what had happened to his two compatriots who had charged her, he was evidently in no mood to meet a similar fate, but without anywhere to flee to he instead held his shield high and adopted what was evidently a defensive stance. His eyes drifted up towards the roof and the pair of hatches mounted there, from where he evidently hoped to receive some reinforcements - and indeed, Mira could already hear the sounds of movement as the Captain and his men reacted to her assault. Scowling, the lower right corner of her face now stained red with her own blood in some mockery of tribal war-paint, the antipaladin considered the situation. Her emerald eyes darted back and forth, taking in the soldier and anything in the rest of the room that might prove to be relevant. Here was the burning fire that heated the cauldron of sand, there were racks of weapons for anyone who found themselves facing an assault in this position, and those were the heavy winch mechanisms to control the gate and bridge...

Her scowl morphed into a smirk, and Mira advanced. Her sword lanced out, stabbing into the burning fire under the cauldron of sand and impaling one of the logs there. Before her opponent could work out what she was doing she swung her sword back up and across, sending the blazing lump of wood flying through the air towards him. Split by her sword, the log fell apart in midair, showering her opponent in a hail of burning splinters. Caught off guard by such a thoroughly unorthodox tactic, the soldier staggered back under the impact, closing his eyes to protect them from the shower of embers. He realized his mistake an instant later, opening his eyes and raising his guard once again, but by that point it was far too late. Mira brought her sword crashing down into an overhead blow that struck the top rim of his shield and bit deep, forcing it back down again and bringing the blade to rest against the man's shoulder. A quick flick of the wrist and the warrior collapsed, his jugular sliced open and his blue and white uniform rapidly turning a dark red in hue.

Speed was of the essence here, for she could not count on having long to work before reinforcements arrived. Turning away from her latest victim, Mira strode across the room towards the winches, studying them carefully. She had hoped that it might be possible to accomplish her goal by just serving some rope with her sword, but it seemed that whoever had designed this place was not willing to put such an obvious weakness in the defenses, for both used chains to move their burdens and heavy iron cases to protect their vulnerable inner workings. Sighing, she flicked the worst of the gore from her blade before sheathing it, then took the lever to the first winch in a firm grip and forced it around. There was no need for a careful lowering of the bridge here, so she released the lever once it had begun to turn, and outside the heavy crash of the drawbridge lowering echoed throughout the night. Shouts of alarm came from the floor above her, and she smiled grimly. There was only one reason for an intruder to lower the drawbridge like that, a reason that any soldier would be able to guess in an instant - she was expecting an attack.

Overhead, the hatches that led to the roof were hauled open, the soldiers suddenly aware that they likely could not afford to wait for more reinforcements before taking her on. There were two access points, one at either end of the room, and the ladders to use them were evidently kept on the roof itself as a further security measure against precisely this sort of situation. The soldiers were evidently unwilling to wait long enough to move them into position, though, choosing to drop straight down to the level below as quickly as they could. Two landed within a heartbeat of each-other, bending their legs to absorb the shock of impact and holding their swords out away from them to avoid the risk of accidentally impaling themselves. Growling, Mira abandoned the winches and moved to meet them.

The first soldier to land carried no shield, relying upon nothing more than a chain coat for defense, and was apparently good enough to need only that. She met Mira's slash with an attack of her own, the two swords meeting in a metallic clash that echoed around the chamber, before twisting her arms and smashing an elbow into Mira's face. The knight staggered back, vision swaying, and it was only the heavy armour she wore that saved her from her opponent's second attack. The woman's sword crashed against Mira's armour and bit deep, leaving a deep cut in the metal but not quite managing to penetrate all the way through to the vulnerable flesh beneath. Before she could withdraw the blade for another strike, Mira counter-attacked, swinging her shield around and bringing the edge of the heavy steel plate smashing into her foe's elbow. Muscles tore and bone shattered under the brutal strike, and the female soldier collapsed with a scream, only to be silenced a moment later by a swift stab from the sword in Mira's other hand.

A sharp prickling sensation on the back of her neck was the only warning Mira got against the next attack, and she hurled herself sideways out of the way as the second soldier leaped down from the floor above. This one was a large and well-muscled man, carrying a halberd that he could only just about fit through the hatch and swinging it down in a powerful attack before he'd even hit the floor. It was a risky tactic, but one which could well have worked, for had Mira not listed to the premonition of danger she had received she suspected the blow might well have cut her nearly in two. As it was all that the man accomplished was embedding his weapon in the floor in a cloud of dust and stone chips, and before he could extract it again Mira had rolled back to her feet and slid her sword straight across his gut, just below where his armour ended. The soldier collapsed, desperately trying to hold his own guts in, and she stepped away from him to study the far side of the room.

The soldiers who had dropped down there had been lucky enough to avoid her initial wrath, and that meant they'd had the time to recover from their descent and work out something resembling a plan. One of them, bearing a sword and shield and settling into a defensive stance, stood in front of the Captain and the final soldier, both of whom were carrying their bows. Mira's lip curled as she saw them and understood their intention - the man with the shield to hold her back, and the two archers to fill her with arrows. Not a bad plan, all in all, given the limited resources and their disposal and the short amount of time they'd had to come up with it.

A moment later, once it was apparent that the man at her feet wasn't going to be getting up again, Captain Eddarly barked an order and the two archers opened fire. Spitting out an oath, Mira brought her shield back around and dropped into a crouch, striving to hide as much of her body as she could behind the heavy steel plate. It was an inelegant defense at best, and the rain of arrows struck her in a constant hail that felt like hammer blows, sending jolts of pain up the arm holding her shield and forcing her to place her other arm against the floor to avoid being knocked sprawling. She couldn't stay like this - already she could see what was likely to happen in her mind's eye, the two archers moving apart to get a better angle on her and reach a point where she couldn't defend against them both at once. Idly, she noticed that the arrow Captain Eddarly had put into her shoulder during her charge across the bridge was still there, sticking out of her armour like some strange oversized feather. She felt the strangest urge to laugh at the realization - it seemed like such a petty thing to be concerned about at a time like this. Still, the momentary distraction had cleared her mind long enough to come up with a solution to her problem. It wasn't exactly an elegant maneuver, but there was at least a chance that it would work, and that was probably all that she was going to get.

Still crouched behind her shield, she turned her sword around in her hand and stabbed it down into the narrow gap between the stone tiles on the floor. It sank in at least a couple of inches, and once she was sure it wasn't about to topple over she let go and immediately rose to her feet, grunting as the move exposed her midsection for a moment and an arrow smacked into it with numbing force. Then she lowered the shield and brought her now-vacant hand slashing through the air, calling on the power in her heart to surround it in a shimmering orb of red and black light. Thorn had taught her the infernal tongue as part of her training, judging such knowledge to be of paramount importance to anyone who wished to serve the forces of Hell, and she called upon that training to spew a list of impressively-vicious sounding invectives at her attackers.

It was all pointless, of course. She wasn't a trained spell-caster, at least not yet, and though the infernal energy that swirled around her hand certainly looked impressive it was completely harmless so long as she didn't touch another living being. Likewise, it took more to invoke a magical spell than just waving your hand in a random pattern and saying the first words that came to mind, even if they _were_ in the language of dark gods and fallen angels.

The soldiers didn't know that, though. They didn't know who she was or what she was capable of, but they'd seen her use magic already, directly when she unveiled her disguise on the bridge and indirectly in the way she'd managed to haunt their fortress for weeks without getting caught or even identified, even going so far as to murder men as they slept on the other side of a locked door. When someone like that pointed at you with a glowing hand and yelled something sinister sounding in an unknown tongue, it was a reasonable conclusion that she was attempting to cast some kind of spell at them. And faced with an incoming attack from unknown magic, it likewise made perfect sense to try and dodge out of the way. All three men threw themselves into desperate rolls in different directions, unsure of what foul magic she was intending to unleash but gambling on the idea that she could only target a limited area at once.

Grinning fiercely, Mira snatched her sword back up with her glowing hand and threw herself forwards. The soldier with the shield was the nearest target, through a combination of bad luck and poor choices on his part, and that allowed her to reach him before he could see through her deception and regain his feet. The bloodied sword in her hand swept around in a vicious arc that took away his eyes and most of his face, flecks of shattered bone flying out and away on an arc of crimson gore. The second soldier was quicker on the uptake, crying out in rage as he realized what she had done and what it had cost his companion, but armed only with a bow he was unable to fend off her ferocious assault. The wooden length of the bow blocked her first swing at the cost of ruining its ability to serve as a weapon, and before the soldier could put more distance between them she knocked him off balance with her shield and ran him through the gut.

An impact like the fist of an angry god caught her in the side and sent her staggering away, biting back a shriek as the pain of the injury blossomed outwards. A quick glance confirmed the cause, though there had hardly been any doubt - Eddarly had regained his stance while she was butchering his remaining men, and had put another arrow into her flank with pinpoint precision. Pain turned to anger as she turned to face him, her expression morphing into a ferocious snarl that was almost animalistic in its intensity. He wouldn't fall for the same trick twice, and it did not seem as though she would be allowed the time to come up with a new scheme before he filled her with more arrows than even her hardened constitution could withstand. Worse, the bow in the Captain's hands was evidently magical in some fashion, for there were few other explanations she could think of as to why his shots did not seem overly impeded by her armour.

Well, if defeating him through endurance and resilience was not an option, and if she did not have the time to find a way to defeat him with cunning and guile, that left only one viable method; sheer brute force. Smiling fiercely, Mira decided that such was entirely acceptable. The infernal power bestowed upon her by Asmodeus boiled in her veins, and she threw herself into a headlong charge, holding her sword ready. The rest of the world seemed to fade away under the onslaught of that terrible power, all thoughts and feelings beyond the drive to defeat her foe rendered trite and meaningless. She would kill him, or he would kill her; there was no other alternative, and that was how the world should be.

In sharp contrast to her murderously joyful rage and her savage grin, Eddarly's expression might as well have been carved from mountain stone. He did not flinch in the face of her onslaught, barely even seemed to notice it, simply drawing and releasing another shot from his bow with all the calm efficiency of an automaton. Was he truly without emotion, or was his simply the brand of rage and hate that ran cold as winter ice rather than burning like fire in his veins? She found it difficult to believe that he felt nothing in relation to her, for even the most calmly disciplined man might struggle with hatred and rage when confronting someone who had slaughtered so many of his comrades, but in the end it was essentially irrelevant. If she won he would know the peace of the grave, and if he cut her down she would be beyond the point of caring what emotion burned in his heart.

Eddarly managed to release three arrows in the short space of time between her beginning her charge and the moment she reached him, drawing and releasing them in a display of marksmanship that was almost inhuman in its skill and confidence. The first was deflected by the aura of dark power that swirled around her like a cloak, sent spinning away to one side as though caught in the teeth of some great gale, but the remaining pair met with greater fortune. The first struck her shield and, in an act that might have been freakish coincidence or divine intervention, actually penetrated through the heavy steel and bit into her hand on the far side, while the second took her in the throat. The tough metal of her gorget prevented the arrow from dealing a crippling injury, but the projectile still managed to pierce her flesh and transform her angry roar into a strangled gurgling sound. Even so, she did not stop, the unholy energy running through her limbs more than enough to compensate for the weaknesses of the flesh and keep her advancing.

She swung her sword the moment she was in range, a horizontal strike with all her strength and momentum behind it, but Eddarly saw her coming and ducked just in time, losing a few golden hairs from his head to the blade but not his life. He released his bow as he dropped into a crouch, reaching out with his now-free hands to grasp her in a maneuver that was somewhere between a wrestler's hold and an outright tackle. The weight of her body and armour provided too much momentum for him to stop outright, but he could still pull her off her feet before she could adjust to his unexpected maneuver, and the two of them went crashing down to the floor together.

Eddarly released a dull gasp as the weight of the armoured knight landing almost on top of him drove much of the wind from his body, while Mira could produce a strangled cry as the impact broke off the haft of the arrow stuck in her flank and drove the metal head deeper into her flesh. Still, she had been trained to fight on even in the face of the most terrible pain, a lesson that she called upon now to drive her. Their position was entangled to the point where it almost looked intimate at first glance, their tangled limbs locked together as she lay on top of him and stared into his eyes from barely an inch away, but Mira felt neither embarrassment nor amusement at the sight, for above all else it meant that her sword was no longer a viable option. Instead she released it, buying time by slamming her head into his own and feeling his nose break under the force of the impact. Then, while he was still momentarily staggered by the move, she held herself off the ground with one hand and slammed the other into his face.

A forceful enough punch to the head could be dangerous enough in many circumstances, especially when the aggressor's fist was sheathed in metal as hers was, but with the burning energies bestowed upon her by Asmodeus her blows were more akin to those delivered by hammers than simple flesh and blood. Even dazed from the strike, Eddarly retained enough awareness to realize his predicament and tried to escape, but she simply shifted position until she was effectively straddling him. Pinned down by the weight of her fully armoured form and reeling from multiple blows to the head, there was little Eddarly to avoid the punishing onslaught. He struggled and flailed as best he could, but she simply struck him again, hammering blow after blow into his face with merciless force, not stopping even when his movements grew slack and uncoordinated, or when blood and flecks of bone began to spray out from every ferocious impact.

Eventually, there was nothing left of Captain Eddarly's face and head that could have possibly belonged to a living man, and at that point she finally ceased her assault. Breathing heavily, feeling her heart hammering away in her chest like the rhythm of some oversized drum, Mira sat back and looked over the rest of the chamber. Eleven men, all armed and experienced fighters, and she had managed to best them all in a single period of bloody slaughter. This was definitely an event worth remembering, in case some day might come when she began to question precisely what it was that the First among the Fallen had done for her. The energy that had driven her today, the dark might that had allowed her to smash through every defense offered against her, those were the gifts that Asmodeus offered to his faithful. Potent gifts indeed, especially considering the relatively low price she had paid for them in terms of her service; a debt she would have to repay someday.

Slowly, Mira picked herself up, wincing at the pain of her injuries now that the heady rush of bloodlust was no longer masking them from her senses. Whatever else she might have thought about them, she could not deny that Eddarly and his soldier had fought well, and she spared a moment to nod to his corpse in a gesture of silent respect. Then, moving carefully lest her unsteady legs betray her and she fall once again, she moved over to the edge of the room and found a barrel full of sand for the defenses that would serve as a passable seat. Having collected her discarded sword along the way, she settled herself down on the improvised seat and began inspecting her injuries.

Four arrow wounds, a cut across her cheek that had left a truly ghastly-looking wound and a collection of bruises and scrapes that she could barely remember receiving. Not a bad collection of wounds, and ones that would likely require days of rest to recover from in the normal course of things, even then leaving long-term or even permanent scars behind. She didn't have the option of leaving for several days of bed rest, though, and in all likelihood still had several more violent encounters to look forwards to before the night was done. Fortunately she had come prepared, knowing that injuries were almost an inevitability in this operation and determined that such things could not be allowed to slow her down. So, wincing with every movement, she reached into the pack she carried and carefully withdrew a pair of small glass bottles, glad that she had possessed the foresight to wrap them carefully before packing them to avoid accidental breaking.

The potions had, ironically enough, been secured from the small church to Mitra in Aldencross proper before she had begun to step up her assault. Providing such items and services was one of the main ways that the Church ingratiated itself with the populace, for they had the numbers and the resources to provide supernatural healing for a price well below that which most would need to charge in order to make such a venture financially viable. In the case of Aldencross, any profits obtained after the costs of production were absorbed were redirected into various charitable causes throughout the region, such as helping to care for those soldiers who suffered injuries in their service that prevented them from supporting themselves in civilian life. It was one of the few aspects of the Mitran church and its practices that Mira actually fully supported, both from an ideological and pragmatic viewpoint, so she'd felt no distaste at all at spending a significant portion of the operational budget she'd recovered from Odenkirk on such supplies. True, the coming invasion meant it was unlikely that these funds in particular would ever see such use, but it was always possible that the populace would manage to flee before the horde reached them, and if so she would not begrudge them taking her money with them.

The holy texts of Asmodeus that Lord Thorn had provided her with might discourage expending effort on the part of others without obtaining some kind of compensation, but it was easy enough to see the connection between such services and the unrivaled popularity that the Church enjoyed in modern Talingarde. The average layperson did not particularly care for the intricacies of formal dogma or the divine sanctity of Mitra's light, but the knowledge that any serious injury or critical disease could be healed by the priests without the need to bankrupt yourself produced a serious feeling of debt and gratitude in the average human. That the Church had reached such a level of power and influence in Talingarde by following such practices amply demonstrated that it had to be doing _something_ right, and she was not such a fool to discard a valuable tactic simply because the enemy had been the one to use it first.

Still, such thoughts were for another time, perhaps years in the future when a true Church of Asmodeus could be reestablished in this land. For now, it was enough that she had the potions and the time with which to use them, since going into battle so injured would almost be an invitation for her foes to exploit her weakness and bring her down. Bracing herself, Mira removed the corks from each bottle in turn and poured the contents down her throat, grateful that the priest had taken the time to add some kind of fruit extract to the potions so that they did not taste quite so vile as some of those she had taken in the past. Then, the bottles empty, she set them aside and waited patiently for her recovery to begin.

Magical healing was a profoundly strange experience, one that she had never quite managed to get used to. The formation of new flesh and blood to replace that which had been lost produced a rather unique sensation, vaguely reminiscent of the growing pains she had been forced to endure in her adolescence but more directed. Her bruises didn't so much seem to heal as evaporate entirely, the bone-deep ache from numerous impacts washed away under a tide of gentle warmth that left her feeling both well-rested and curiously energized afterwards. When she gritted and teeth and held the severed sections of her cheek together for healing, the sensation of the wound mending itself back together was almost sinfully enjoyable, as though her body was aware that it had just been repaired and inspired positive emotions by way of celebration. She'd known some old soldiers who had actually grown addicted to the sensation, risking more and more perilous tactics in the course of their battles in the hopes of experiencing the unrivaled relief that came with the treating of their wounds, but she had seen too many of them perish in the pursuit of such pleasure to ever follow such a path herself.

All in all, the healing took perhaps ten seconds, and once it was concluded there was little left afterwards to suggest that she had ever been injured in the first place. The potions could do nothing about the blood that stained her skin or the dents and scratches in her arms and armour, but acknowledging such limitations was more an issue with personal vanity than any real complaint.

Content that her recovery was finished, Mira hopped back off the barrel and returned to work. She was still operating under a limited timescale here, for while many in the garrison might dismiss the gatehouse from their concern under the assumption that the troops stationed here would prove sufficient, the lack of activity would not escape notice forever. She had to thoroughly cripple this place before the attack came or reinforcements arrived, and that meant finishing what she had started with the winches.

Fortunately, the intricate system of pulleys and counterweights within the remaining winch meant that the strength of one person was more than sufficient to raise the portcullis and remove the final obstacle between the incoming attack and the castle proper. Disabling the winches afterwards was likewise fairly simple, for they were designed to be dismantled by their users in order to facilitate repairs and maintenance, and the levers could therefore be removed with less than a minute's work. Mira collected both, satisfied that any replacements would take more time to install and use than the surviving garrison had remaining, then strode to the door and tossed them out into the darkness. The metal rods spun freely in the air as they fell away, and she turned back to her work, knowing that the fast-running river below would soon carry them far away from any hope of recovery. The cauldron of searing-hot sand was likewise easy to dispose of, for it was specifically designed to allow the contents to be poured away and onto anyone trying to break through the gatehouse, and heating a replacement batch to a sufficient level to pose a danger to attackers would take hours at the least.

That done, she closed and locked the door leading to the secondary bridge and dragged her improvised seat over to stand underneath one of the open hatches leading to the roof above. It was a little awkward moving the thing, and twice she had to stop and shift the ruined bodies of her defeated opponents out of the way, but since they'd been inconsiderate enough to leap down and engage her rather than lowering the ladders this was the only way she had of reaching the rooftop. After a moment's thought, she also took the time to liberate Captain Eddarly of his presumably enchanted bow and the quiver of arrows that he carried, hefting them up onto the roof ahead of her. Ranged combat wasn't her strongest suite, but she'd been trained to shoot before and you never knew when the ability to engage in such a fashion would prove useful. Then, grunting with the effort, she used her new footstool to gain the necessary height and slowly hauled herself up onto the gatehouse roof.

The chances that anyone would be able to get up here in time to play a part in the coming battle were fairly small, but she did not intend to leave anything to chance if she could avoid it. The rock droppers were simple to disable, a few moment's work utterly ruining the gears they use to turn on and preventing them from effectively bombarding anything other than a very small section of the approach. The ballistae were more complicated, being finely made Dwarven work imported from forges far to the south and therefore considerably sturdier, but in the end she settled for just pitching the crates full of ammunition they used over the side of the gatehouse to tumble away down the cliffs. There were probably more stored somewhere within the castle, but she judged it supremely unlikely that anyone would manage to realize what had happened and move the heavy crates all the way up here in time to make any real difference. All of that done, she settled herself down onto one of the small seats next to the crenellations and waited.

To pass the time, she took the opportunity to actually start cleaning her equipment, borrowing the supplies that the soldiers had left up here to tidy herself up as best she could. A proper cleaning of her breastplate would have required her to remove the armour and spend maybe an hour going over it with cloth and some polish, but since doing so just before an impending battle was unwise in the extreme she settled for just cleaning the worst of the gore that she could reach. It helped to pass the time, for she couldn't think of much else she could do that would really help her cause in the time she had remaining, and remaining here would help her make sure that the start of the assault went reasonably well. She would likely have to flee before too long, lest she be caught up in the chaos of the battle and mistaken for an enemy by one of her bestial 'allies', but at the very least she wanted to witness at least some payoff for all her hard work.

The garrison was taking a _long_ time to respond. Frowning, Mira tilted her chair back and peered back at the squat bulk of the fortress behind her. She could see lights burning in several windows, hear the distant sounds of movement and cries of alarm from within, but no-one seemed to actually be organizing a coherent response or coming to secure the gatehouse. Then again, perhaps the opposite was true. If she'd been in the position of having to defend this place, especially considering that there couldn't be more than twenty soldiers left alive by this point and almost none of the officers or supporting specialists, she likely would have wanted to make sure that whatever she did called upon the full strength of force left to her. A piecemeal assault aimed at retaking the gatehouse would get the defenders nowhere, if indeed they even decided to attempt such a thing, but a unified offensive would have much better luck. Or perhaps Lord Havelyn had decided that he almost certainly didn't have the troops to hold this place against determined assault and chosen to organize an evacuation of Aldencross instead.

Shrugging, Mira turned her attentions away from the castle and back to her own equipment. The armour was about as clean as it was going to get without a more thorough going over, so instead she turned her attention to her sword. The heavy blade was thoroughly encrusted with gore, to the point where she couldn't actually see any of the gleaming metal underneath anymore, and with a sigh she picked up the oiled cloth and began cleaning.

It did not take long to realize that something wasn't quite right. The superficial layer of gore came away quite easily, but no matter how carefully she cleaned the rest of it she couldn't remove the layer of dull scarlet underneath it. In fact, when she hefted the blade in her hand and took a closer look, it almost appeared that the steel of the sword had managed to somehow _absorb_ the endless tide of lifeblood in had been soaked in, until the blade itself was as red as freshly spilled blood. Just looking at it seemed to fill her mind with memories of that merciless slaughter, kindling the desire in her heart to go forth and add more lives to her tally, a faint drumbeat in the back of her mind...

"Asmodeus truly does reward the faithful." She said softly, a smile breaking out on her face. She'd heard of occurrences like this before, of mundane blades being used for great and terrible deeds and thereby acquiring a kind of power beyond that offered by simple metal. Most of the stories had centered around heroes pledged in service to Mitra, of course, but the common elements remained in enough of them that most people in Talingarde accepted them as a very real possibility. She had slaughtered dozens of men and women with this sword in a very short length of time, and it seemed that such an action had consequences, either through 'natural' causes or by means of an infernal reward. Either way, whatever the precise properties of this blade, it was sure to help her in the days and weeks to come.

Her reverie was broken by two events occurring in swift succession. Firstly, the main doors to the castle Balentyne slammed open, as though thrown apart with great force, and a small squad of soldiers emerged. She thought they might be mounting an attack upon the gatehouse, but instead they simply advanced to the edge of the bridge and halted. For a moment Mira frowned at the sight, trying to puzzle out the logic of emerging from behind the protection of the reinforced doors but not advancing any further, before the answer came to her. Any attack from the north would likely involve barbarians and monsters, and such foes were well known for being unable to resist the sight of an enemy awaiting them. By positioning those forces there, Havelyn was preparing to lure his enemy into a straight fight and discourage them from attempting to sneak around or scale the walls or do anything else particularly creative. It was a sensible if cold-hearted stratagem, given the resources that the commander had to work with, and if she was right he would be following up on it...

Her intuition was confirmed correct a moment later with the second event, when a small group of humanoid figures moved up onto the walls of Balentyne proper and began making their way around to the secondary bridge. It took her a moment of staring at them in the gloom to realize what it was that was bothering her about them. Namely, that they were not men at all, but dwarves clad in heavy armour and carrying finely crafted crossbows. Eisenbach and his crew, it had to be, but she had assumed they were only engineers... no, she was _certain_ they were only engineers, with only the absolute basics of combat training. The idea that such people, who were barely a step about civilians at the most, would volunteer to defend Balentyne in the face of an attack was simply not one that occurred to her. And yet it made a certain kind of sense, for the honour and courage of the dwarfish race was well-known, and there were perhaps a hundred of their kin in Aldencross that needed as much defending as their human neighbours. Grudgingly, Mira nodded to them in silent but genuine respect, then turned her attention to the lone human who had led them out here.

Lord-Commander Thomas Havelyn, anointed paladin of Mitra and Knight of the Alerion, was perhaps one of the single most impressive and deadly looking warriors she had ever laid eyes upon. He was clad in full plate armour that shone as though it lay under the noonday sun, and the finely crafted sword in his hand blazed with a holy light that banished the darkness for several yards in every direction. Little of his face could be seen thanks to the steel helmet that he wore, but what little she could make out of his weathered skin and grey-streaked beard indicated that he was in his late middle age at least. Close to retirement, by most standards, but that hardly made him any less dangerous; quite the opposite, in fact, for it meant that he had survived active military service on the border long enough to _get_ that old in the first place. Certainly the way he walked and carried his weaponry spoke of the well-earned confidence to be gained only from experience.

All of that, though, was a secondary concern at best when compared to the divine light and power that seemed to surround him like a cloak. To Mira's eyes, blessed as they were with the ability to discern those touched by the heavens, the old man shone like a star fallen to the earth; a relentless radiance that irritated her eyes and kindled the first hints of wary fear in her heart. She'd been hoping that he would choose to lead the defense of the causeway or otherwise avoid crossing her path, or at the very least do so in a way where she could exploit the advantage of numbers and surprise, but it seemed that it was not to be. That was unfortunate, but then no-one had ever claimed that Asmodeus would go out of his way to give his servants an easy life.


	16. Act Four - Burning Balentyne Part 2

She could tell when Havelyn spotted the ruined corpse of the first guard at the gatehouse door, for his hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword and the aura of righteous might that surrounded him seemed to intensify for a moment before being brought back under control. That was about as close as she was going to get to a prompt, so with a sigh Mira stood up and moved to the edge of the rooftop, allowing the light from Havelyn's sword and the torches carried by several of the dwarves to reach and illuminate her.

"Good evening, Lord Havelyn." She called out in a clear voice, putting a caustic edge to her tone and pitching her voice so that it could be easily heard by everyone nearby. As expected several of the dwarves hesitated to the point of almost stumbling at the sight of her, and down below on the bridge more than one of the soldiers looked up in surprise and utter shock. The paladin himself, however, barely even blinked, instead coming to a halt and tilting his head back to look at her.

"Human?" He queried in a calm tone, his voice almost pleasantly conversational but for the edge of murderous fury lurking just underneath. "Or is this but one more illusion in an endless parade of the same?"

"Oh, I'm human." Mira responded lightly, aware that several of the surprised looks on the faces of the human soldiers down below were slowly turning to anger at the perceived betrayal. She had to drag this out as long as she could, delay the paladin from serious action for however long it took Sakkarot to arrive. And if she could forestall the moment when he inevitably tried to kill her, that would be nice too. "For what little it matters, anyway."

"Your accent is Talirean." The commander said in a tone of accusation, gesturing towards the slain body of the soldier with his burning sword. "Yet I find myself hard-pressed to believe the treachery and madness that would drive a daughter of Mitra to turn upon her own kin like this."

Despite herself, Mira's eyes flashed with a moment of cold rage, and she responded on instinct. "I am no child of Mitra."

"All who are born in this land are his children." The paladin countered, his words grave like those of a disappointed teacher. "Even if we feel lost and cast out, even if everything we think we know says that we are alone with no hope of ever returning to the light, he loves us like a father loves his children. All we have to do to return to his embrace... is ask."

For a moment, it was all that Mira could do to stare at the paladin, her emerald eyes wide with surprise. She had heard that Mitra's chosen knights were meant to be virtuous and noble beyond all others, to see the light in even the blackest of souls, but never before had she honestly expected to see that played out in front of her. Some part of her wanted to mock the paladin for his naivety, but the rest was forced to acknowledge the worth of a man who believed in his creed with such strength and fervor as to make an offer such as this even to one such as she.

"Are you... honestly trying to redeem me?" She asked at last, once she had regained enough control to speak the words without laughter or tears. "Do you have any idea what I've done; the oaths I have sworn, the people I have killed? Men, women, soldiers and officers, wizards and priests? You can hardly fail to notice the ruin I have wrought upon your garrison over the past few weeks, yet you would stand there and speak such words regardless?"

"I would." The paladin said with complete sincerity, as though it was the most simple thing in the world. "I am true to the teachings of my god. The Beneficent Sun shines down upon all the souls in this world, from the most noble to the utterly depraved, blessing and healing them all without distinction. To be mortal is to be fallible, to stray from the path and become lost in shadow, but the sun will always be there to guide you back home should you wish it."

His voice changed then, becoming harsh and wrathful, the steel of a hundred swords echoing in every word and gesture. "I advise you to take the opportunity presented, for I am compelled to offer it but once. Hold to sin and darkness and it shall be to the Fire Undying that I turn, and for the crimes you have committed I shall _smite your burning corpse against the mountain stone._ "

His last words rang out like a clarion call, an ultimatum imbued with an almost physical force that washed over Mira like a wave. She flinched at the sound, so full of deadly promise it felt more like a statement of inevitable fact that a curse, and had to squint slightly to compensate for the way that the paladin's aura seemed to intensify and shroud him in near-blinding light. Lord Havelyn, it seemed, was _very_ angry.

"You know, I might actually believe you." She said at last, her words carefully chosen and pronounced with slow deliberation. "Were it not, of course, for the fact despite all your rhetoric about the divine forgiveness of Mitra, I have _already_ been declared an enemy of your insipid God."

The infernal power began to well up in her veins then, an aura of dark and terrible majesty slowly forming around her like a cloak as she looked down at this champion of a rival faith. "You are a good man, Lord Havelyn. But it was good men that took everything from me, good men that held me down and branded me like cattle, good men that condemned me to death and named me Forsaken before throwing me into the deepest, darkest hole they could find. So you will forgive me if the chance of ingratiating myself with good men and their God no longer holds much appeal."

She drew her sword then, the blade stained red with the blood of murdered soldiers, and pointed it down at the Paladin who stood before her. "So come, attempt to strike me down and fulfill your promise with steel and flame, but know that I shall not make it easy for you. I have a new lord now, one who has blessed and protected me more than yours ever did, and in his name I will spill your blood upon the ground and laugh as you die. _Hail Asmodeus._ "

As the words of the declaration left her lips, the world itself seemed to rumble, the stones of the gatehouse trembling faintly under her feet and sending small pieces of rubble clattering across the ground. Mira had read of earthquakes before, in books and stories brought from distant lands that spoke of times when the ground shook and stone roiled like water, but there had not been such an event within the borders of Talingarde in living memory. For a moment she thought this might be a response to her announcement, or else a coincidence so perfectly timed that it all but demanded divine intervention to justify, but after a moment passed and the trembling continued she realized that such was not the case. A quick glance back over her shoulder confirmed her guess, and she felt her mouth curl into a smile as cold and cruel as it was triumphant.

The horde of Sakkarot Fire-Axe advanced on the borders of Talingarde in a solid wall of fur and fang. The dark of the nighttime sky shrouded the rolling plains in shadow and made it all but impossible to distinguish one monster from the next, endless silhouettes blending together in one solid mass that rolled forwards like the tide. There were thousands of them, perhaps even tens of thousands, every monster and beast that made its lair in that desolate and forgotten land rounded up and pressed into the service of the great warlord that stood at their heart. The cold moonlight shone down upon the scene, too faint to reveal many details about the individual creatures but more than sufficient to highlight ever upraised blade and cruel spear with a faint glow of deadly promise.

Most of the creatures in the horde had night vision that put shame to the weak eyes of man, and as such did not require torches to light their way or fire to reveal the location of their foes. There was but one point of light in the entirety of the oncoming army - the flames wrapped around a single burning axe, held tightly by a single marauder in battered old plate armour and wearing a crown of steel. It should have looked small and insignificant, a candlelight blotted out by the rolling waves of hungry shadows that surrounded it, but somehow the contrast merely seemed to emphasize the dire power and menace of the axe, exaggerating the fearsome strength of the one that held it. A hundred horns blared out in the darkness, their crude signals answered by a roar from ten thousand bestial throats, and the horde's charge began to gather in speed.

From the ranks of the human soldiers on the causeway below emerged a low moan, the dreadful sound that men made when they beheld the form of their doom advancing upon them. It was an acknowledgement of the inevitable, for there were but twenty men and a dozen dwarves ready to stand against the onslaught, and for all their training and determination they knew that this was not a battle they could win. They were going to die here; all else was merely a matter of circumstance and timing, and Mira could see the way that many of these men began to shake and shiver with the knowledge.

"Stand fast!" Havelyn roared, his voice cutting through the clamor of the oncoming horde with ease. His sword blazed with light as he held it in the air, a symbol of bravery and defiance that was as heartfelt as it was simple. "We are the soldiers of Talingarde! Though we meet our ends here tonight, we do so with duty in our hearts and a prayer upon our lips, knowing that through our sacrifice we save the lives of those who cannot fight for themselves! Even now, our brother and sisters are evacuating Aldencross, but we have to buy them more time! Every moment we delay the foe is a dozen more souls moved to safety!"

At his words, fists clenched and teeth were bared, the men and women who stood guard upon the causeway driven to new heights of courage and resolve by the reminder of what they fought for. They would fight and die, and they would do so willingly, in full knowledge of what their defiance would cost them but choosing to pay that price anyway. Despite herself, Mira looked upon them and knew _pride_ , the last shreds of solidarity she held with those who she might once have served alongside compelling her to acknowledge the nobility of their sacrifice. Then she looked to Havelyn, and found the Paladin meeting her gaze.

"I might die here tonight, traitor." He said, his words low and furious, the shining light of his aura settling around him like a cloak. "But I will serve my country one last time before I go, and send you to your judgement before me!"

With that, the Paladin moved forwards, stepping up onto the stone crenellations that lined the edge of the bridge and leaping into space. It should have been a fool's gesture, leading to injury at least or death at worst, but before the divine knight could begin to fall the light around him intensified into a blinding halo. Within that halo formed wings of silver and gold, great pinions that bore him aloft in a charge directly towards her in defiance of strength and gravity. Mira's eyes widened in shock as she stepped back onto the roof of the gatehouse proper, already bringing up her sword and shield in a reflexive gesture as she tried to understand what she was seeing. She had been hoping that her position would protect her from the paladin for at least a few minutes, but it seemed that the heavens were quite willing to expend their power on a minor miracle when the need was great enough. Her heart thundered as the infernal might infusing her soul rose up in response, and she snarled in wordless defiance.

As Havelyn reached the rooftop the wings disappeared, a temporary gift reclaimed once their purpose was served, and the paladin all but fell towards her in a move that was as much uncontrolled plummet as a charge. The sword in his hand came thundering down like a bolt from the heavens, all his considerable momentum placed behind it to form one single and overwhelming strike. In the brief instant allowed to her Mira spread her feet apart for stability and swung her own blade up to meet it, the blade beginning to burn with an unholy flame that shed an aura of crimson light across the rooftop.

The two swords, both wielded by champions of the gods and empowered with their divine might, met with a tremendous noise that was not so much heard as _felt_. Displaced air rushed out in all directions, dislodging clouds of dust and small pebbles from the stone underfoot and banishing it from a crude ring drawn around the combatants. For an instant the two warriors strained against each other, and then each staggered back as the overwhelming pressure of their conflicting power forced them apart. Booted feet gouged small divots in the stonework as each struggled to reverse their momentum, and then they came together once more in a clash visible for miles around.

In many ways, they were evenly matched. Both were veteran officers of the Wall, trained to fight monsters and barbarians by pitting skill and discipline against brutal power, and both had the years of experience necessary to compliment their training. When faced with a foe that moved faster and hit harder than a normal man ever could, they simply adjusted their tactics appropriately and fought on, relying on their defenses to see them through until a proper opportunity could be grasped. So too were they both scions of the nobility, each recognizing in the other the telltale traits of training and resources beyond the grasp of the common man, their attacks and counters each based on formal techniques taught to them as children.

Their similarities even extended to their equipment, each favoring heavy armour to protect themselves and wielding swords and shields in perfect symphony. Mira's breastplate was comparatively lighter and more flexible, endowing her with a superior agility that she took full and merciless advantage of, while Havelyn's thicker plate allowed him to absorb or turn aside blows that might have sheared straight through weaker protection without stopping. Of the two, the paladin held more skill with his heavy shield of polished steel, but it was an advantage counterbalanced by the remorseless hunger of the bloodstained blade in Mira's hands.

It was in their divine blessings, however, that the true similarities as well as the irreconcilable differences were most apparent, for none who saw they clash could deny that the two warriors were empowered in ways that, if not identical, were surely inspired and made to match one another with eerie precision. Both were tougher and faster than simple biology could explain, both struck with greater force and more precision than their training and experience might suggest, and both were surrounded by an aura of half-real power that seemed to turn aside blows just as well as any armour. Yet even in those areas where they might mirror one another, the differences of their heritage betrayed themselves just as surely. Mira fought with a ruthless, domineering power, seeking to crush her opponent swiftly and thoroughly. In contrast, Thomas wielded his blade with all the calm deliberation of a divine executioner, content to bide his time waiting for an opportunity and then exploiting that chance to the fullest possible advantage while it yet existed.

Back and forth they fought, trading blows that cracked the stone and released a noise like thunder when they landed. Blood and sparks flew in great arcs as their blades bit into flesh and steel alike, injuries given and received in equal measure as they fought to survive for moments that felt like hours. Below them the savage horde of the Fire-Axe reached the walls and surged through the gatehouse in a living tide, hurling themselves against the paltry shield-wall that opposed them in a mad fury. Men and beasts died in a brutal slaughter not more than a stone's throw from where they stood but neither could spare the attention from their duel for it to be anything more than a distraction.

For a moment the natural rhythms of their fight brought the two of them close, blades locked against each other and muscles straining. Magical discharges crackled around them as though they stood at the heart of their own personal storm, and blood ran freely down their arms and legs to drip upon the floor.

"You have skill." Havelyn conceded, his posture as unyielding as the mountain, his expression calm but his eyes burning with righteous anger. "But not enough to best me."

"Go to Hell." Mira snarled back, her breathing labored and her skin soaked with sweat from the effort the fight demanded. "I'm not done yet."

For all her bravado, though, she could not deny the truth. Her skills were impressive, and the blessings of Asmodeus made her mighty beyond her dreams, but Thomas Havelyn was simply _better_ than she was. He'd served for longer, received more training, had many more years of channeling the power of his faith through his sword to draw upon. Worse, he'd evidently learned to channel true magic at some point, much as the priests did, for his muscles had a greater strength to them than a man of his size should possess and his sword blazed with more power than that bestowed by the abilities they shared. She was hurting him, making him work for his victory, but unless something significant changed soon there was no real chance that she was going to be the one who emerged victorious here.

It was an ugly truth to swallow, but one that was made all too apparent when the paladin focused his might for a second and broke through the deadlock they had established with simple might. She staggered backwards, bringing her shield up to defend her exposed torso, and could not help but let out a curse as the paladin struck it full on with his divinely empowered blade. Steel parted with a horrific shriek, and suddenly she was holding only half a shield in her left hand, the jagged edge glowing white-hot with magically conducted heat. Snarling, she discarded the tattered remnants of her shield and took her blade in a two-handed grip.

Without the protection offered by the shield, though, her defenses suffered massively and it was all she could do to prevent the paladin from gutting her outright as he pressed his attack. With relentless efficiency he drove her back, forcing a steady retreat across the rooftop one step at a time as Mira hunted desperately for something that would allow her to regain the advantage. There had to be something, some factor she was overlooking, some way she could still win this if she only looked hard enough...

Her heels came up against the hard stone of the crenellations with a sudden jolt, and her eyes widened in shock as she tried to compensate for the sudden shift in her balance such an interruption created. It was only a small opening, an instant of confusion as she processed what was happening and responded, but that was all that a warrior like Thomas Havelyn needed.

The cold steel blade of his longsword struck her just inches from her heart, piercing the metal armour over her left breast with contemptuous ease and sliding through flesh and between her ribs with irresistible force. It erupted from her back an instant later, stabbing into the stone wall beyond and all but transfixing her in place.

The world seemed to go suddenly very quiet, sound and colour alike slowing leeching away as Mira looked down and saw the lethally sharp blade impaling her through the chest. Dimly she was aware that she'd probably just been stabbed in the lung and that was a _very bad thing_ , but somehow it almost didn't seem to matter right then. She thought vaguely that something like this was probably meant to hurt rather more than it was - surely she should be in agony, not simply contending with the faint discomfort of having a sword in her chest? Or was that just shock?

The strength fading from her muscles, Mira found her head lolling to one side, her eyes taking in the sight of Balentyne proper for the first time since crossing blades with Havelyn. She could just about see the final remnants of the garrison fighting to the death against the bugbear horde - their line broken, the small pockets of resistance being overwhelmed one by one as the monsters streamed into the fortress. The Dwarves were still firing, releasing disciplined volleys of crossbow bolts into the stream of enemies beneath them, but there were too few and their weapons were too slow to truly stem the tide. Parts of the fortress were already burning.

"In Mitra's name, I do my duty and send you on for final judgement." Havelyn was saying gravely, his voice soft and distorted as though heard from a distance or underwater. "Pass on knowing that for all your strength and depravity, it was not enough. If you have any last words, speak them now."

Mira coughed wetly, tasting the coppery tang of her own blood on her lips. She was sure that the world was meant to be going cold - wasn't that what all the stories said would happen when you were dying? It was true that there weren't many reliable witnesses to the whole affair, but she would have expected them to be at least vaguely accurate. As it was, she could swear that the air was actually getting warmer, as though some great fire was burning out of control not so very far away. She could hear chanting, and there was a sense of... _presence_ in the air around her that was difficult to explain, as though some great being was watching her slow death with infinite patience, some great judge waiting to see how she would acquit herself at the end before passing judgement...

 _Oh. Well, that makes sense. Of course He's watching. I gave my word that I would deliver this land back into His hands..._

 _I gave my word._

Havelyn was halfway through withdrawing his sword from her chest when one hand clamped down over his wrist with a grip like iron, the other rising to encircle his neck and shoulders in some foul parody of a loving embrace. Muscles screaming, Mira wrenched her head back around to meet him face to face once more, her eyes blazing with a fanatic's conviction and her voice a silken purr.

"I win."

Then she hauled on his shoulders and rolled, throwing herself over the edge of the battlements and taking him with her.

The wind howled around them as they fell.


	17. Act Five - Second Assignment

**Act Five - Farholde**

Way of the Wicked Chapter Sixteen

When she awoke, the first thing that Mira felt was surprise.

She had not, in truth, ever expected to regain consciousness. The fall from atop Balentyne's gatehouse had been a long one, and the only place to land would have been on the hard rocks of the cliff or the cold waters of the river running at its base, neither of which would have been particularly gentle. Even if she had survived the impact, which was by no means a guarantee, it would have almost certainly knocked her senseless, and being stunned and clad in heavy armour after falling into a river was not a scenario likely to result in anything other than a swift death by drowning. And, of course, even if you set all of that aside there was still the undeniable truth that she had been stabbed through the chest with a sword.

She should not be alive. She had known when she threw herself from the gatehouse that achieving her mission in such a way would very likely cost her life, and that was a price she had been prepared to pay. Yet now she found herself not only alive, lying on her back and staring up into the starlit sky, but apparently in better health than when she had flung herself from the roof in the first place. Her body still ached, but it was a discomfort without specific source, and a quick glance down confirmed that her chest was conspicuously missing a bloody puncture wound of any description. What in the nine hells had happened?

"Good, you're awake."

At the sound of the voice, Mira rolled over onto her side and craned her head around, one hand falling to her belt in search of a weapon. It took her a moment to place her surroundings as some kind of small forest clearing, surrounded by tall pine trees that shielded the horizon from view. There were any number of such places dotted along the banks of Lake Tarik, but the nearest would have to be more than a mile from Balentyne itself, which definitely indicated that she'd been moved here by some being or force before she could awake. A moment later she spotted the lean and cloaked figure resting agains the base of a nearby tree, and smiled as everything started to click into place.

"Do you have any idea how heavy a grown woman in full armour is?" Timeon said dryly, the hood of his cloak drawn forward so that most of his face was hidden in shadow. "I had to haul you out of that lake and damn near half a mile across muddy ground by myself. Nearly did my back in."

"If the armour was a problem, you could have just removed it." Mira responded with a wry smile, settling herself back down onto the ground now that she was sure there was no immediate threat. "I'm sure you know how, and I would hardly have taken mortal offense at you seeing me halfway undressed. You should have realized by now I'm not exactly fussed by the whole 'modesty' thing."

"Oh, it wasn't retribution from _you_ I was worried about." Timeon said, nodding at her. "Have you seen what you're wearing?"

Frowning, Mira looked down at her torso again and blinked in surprise. When she'd be fighting the paladin she'd been wearing a breastplate and supplementary armour loaned to her by Thorn, the cold metal plates unadorned by any insignia and giving her the look of a professional mercenary or adventurer, but somewhere between her plunge from the roof and waking up here that protection had vanished. In its place was a set of baroque plate armour, dyed a deep crimson in hue and edged with golden highlights, the individual pieces decorated with precisely etched lines of text in the infernal tongue. If someone had asked her to describe a set of armour appropriate for a champion of hell, she might have come up with something like this, and she didn't have to test it to know that the plate was perfectly sized for her own figure. That it was a gift or reward of some kind seemed obvious, and the infernal design left little doubt as to its origins, but even so she still found herself entirely unsure how to feel. This hadn't been something that she'd asked for or even expected, and while she was not such a fool as to think that Asmodeus required her permission before acting in such a fashion, it was still somewhat unsettling to be reminded that the divine sometimes interfered in the world unprompted by any mortal agency.

"...huh." She said at last, any eloquence stolen by surprise and conflicting emotions.

"That was my reaction too." Timeon said dryly. "I saw you fall a hundred feet onto water and rocks with a sword through your heart. No offense to you, but I was pretty sure that meant you were dead, so I slipped out of the side gate and started heading west before the horde could regroup and stumble across me in the dark."

"No offense taken. I didn't really expect to survive that myself." Mira said slowly, bringing her arm around to test the range of movement allowed by her new armour. The plates looked to be made of metal, but if so it was lighter and more flexible than anything she'd ever heard of before, or else it was enchanted in some way. The latter seemed more likely, given the obviously supernatural means by which she had received it, but she would have to devote some study to working out precisely what kind of enchantments were woven into the metal before she felt truly comfortable wearing it into battle. "You evidently got away successfully. What happened then?"

"Well, _then_ I found your unconscious body floating in the shallows, apparently having survived a lethal fall and clad in armour that looked to have come straight from the Pit." The ex-squire said, his words lightly delivered but with a certain weight behind them all the same. "I might not be an anointed champion, but I can still recognize the signs of divine intervention when they're displayed so obviously in front of my eyes. It seems Asmodeus or his agents think keeping you alive is a worthwhile investment, and I didn't much fancy finding out what they would do to me if I just left you there to drown. So, I poured the rest of our healing potions down your throat and dragged you to the nearest hiding place I could find."

Mira nodded slowly, pleased to have an answer for her unexpected good health. Relying too much on potions to repair wounds suffered by the body was sometimes thought to be a bad idea, since there was only so much magical influence a body could withstand before side effects began to manifest, but on balance she had to concede that Timeon had probably made the right choice there. She was a little surprised that the squire hadn't decided to seize the opportunity presented by her helpless state to claim his long-delayed revenge, but the possibility of infernal retribution should he have slain her was an easily understandable explanation. Even so, she doubted the decision had been a quick or easy one, and she made a mental note to observe what impact it had on his personality in the days to come. He already seemed more open and talkative than before, though, which was a positive sign at least.

Grunting, Mira pushed herself back to her feet, brushing off the dirt from her enforced rest and looking around the small clearing once more. "Well, you have my thanks for the assistance, and moving us to somewhere out of the way was doubtless a good idea as well. Even so, we should probably move - I don't think Sakkarot would bring the bulk of the horde this way, but that means anything that does stumble across us is unlikely to be particularly loyal to him, so I'd rather not linger in the area for too long. You have our supplies?"

Timeon nodded, rising in turn and hefting a sturdy pack onto his shoulders. "Yeah. I stopped by the commander's quarters as well before I left - it seemed a good place to hide, since everyone headed straight for the gates once they worked out what was happening. Turns out that Havelyn kept the bulk of the treasury in a chest at the foot of his bed, probably for security, so I took all of that as well - figured some bugbear was going to loot it anyway, and we need it more than they do."

Mira nodded approvingly, already rooting around in the pouches on her belt, thankful that those at least had survived the transformation. "Good thinking. Now we need to report in. I doubt that Thorn is unaware of what has transpired here - if nothing else, Sakkarot probably has some means of communicating with him - but hopefully he's prepared a method of extraction more efficient than simply walking."

After a few moment's search she located what she was looking for; the clay seal that Thorn had given her before she left on this mission. She took a moment to marvel at the way it had survived all the abuse it must have gone through in her pack for so long, then took it in a firm grip and broke it into pieces.

Barely a moment later, as though summoned by whatever signal breaking the seal had created, a pillar of smoke and flames materialized in the middle of the clearing, fading away a moment later to reveal Tiadora. The blond woman was dressed in a dark red shirt and a long skirt, a silk scarf wrapped around her pale throat and resting on her shoulders, and the expression on her face was positively delighted as she stepped out of the smoke and looked around.

"Oh, well _done_ , dearest." She said with a smile, turning her attention towards Mira and seemingly dismissing Timeon as largely unimportant. "I confess I had my doubts that you would prove equal to the task, but it seems that our master chose well when he selected you for one of his agents. He wishes me to convey his heartfelt congratulations for a job well done."

Assessing eyes travelled up and down, taking in the baroque armour that Mira wore and the bloody sword at her side. "And it seems he is not the only one to judge such service as being worthy of acknowledgement. Next to such majestic gifts this minor wealth I bring with me seems almost petty, but I suppose it fitting that rewards delivered by He Above All should outstrip any that could be delivered by one of lesser station."

Mira couldn't help but feel a little off balance in the face of such praise and acknowledgement. She had never known Tiadora to be anything but cruel and mocking, a sadistic and arrogant woman who delighted in identifying and exploiting the weaknesses of those around her. To hear words of such praise coming from her lips felt _wrong_ , somehow, as though a fundamental element of the world had suddenly been knocked out of order. Still, she could not allow her surprise to keep her entirely on the back foot, for she doubted that Tiadora would maintain such a positive attitude for long, and it would not be wise to be found in a position of weakness when she reverted.

"You honour me with such praise." She said carefully, reviewing each word before she said it to make sure she did not give offense or otherwise misstep. "Though I cannot help but fear that this will not suffice in itself to achieve Lord Thorn's goals. Sakkarot's horde will rampage unchecked for a time, but word will reach the south soon enough. The Heartland and the cities of the Cambrian Bay will raise their armies, and King Markaddian will lead them north. The battle will be far closer to a fair fight than anything seen in centuries, but I would still expect Talingarde to emerge victorious from such a confrontation."

"Indeed." Tiadora replied, inclining her head in acknowledgement. In an absent minded fashion she unhooked a small pouch from her belt and tossed it to Timeon, who caught it out of the air without a word. "Fortunately, plans are in motion to tilt the balance of forces in a more favorable direction. Some of them will require your involvement - the Cardinal will brief you on those when he deems it necessary. For now, follow me."

With that, the foreign woman turned and began striding out of the small clearing in the direction of Lake Tarik. Mira paused long enough for Timeon to join her, then fell into step behind, enjoying the fresh air and the chance to slowly catch her breath after the somewhat manic end to her first mission. Silently, she glanced over at Timeon, who responded by opening the pouch he'd been given and revealing the cold glitter of the coins inside. They were all in the highest denominations that the Mint produced, likely selected for their ease of use and transport, and judging by the size of the pouch Mira estimated they were the equivalent of perhaps five thousand crowns; a hefty sum, even from a noble's perspective. The great families of the realm were fantastically wealthy, but most of that value tended to be tied up in land and property, or else converted into jewels or magical items of some kind. She'd probably find some way to convert this reward into something similar the next time she had an opportunity as well, for carrying around so much coinage tended to be little more than an invitation for fate to blight you with the attention of pickpockets.

Together the three of them emerged from the small copse of trees and made their way across the fields and roads, shunning disguises in the knowledge that any observers would have considerably greater problems to occupy their minds soon enough. Their route took them over one of the hills that dropped away in a cliff towards the river, and from that elevated vantage point Mira could finally get a good look back over the countryside behind them.

Balentyne was little more than a burned-out husk at this point, the heavy stone construction largely immune to the predations of the average bugbear but battered all the same by those larger creatures that had accompanied the horde south. Thin trails of smoke curled up into the early morning air, and even though the fortress had fallen hours ago she could still see the dark shapes of more invaders pouring through it's gates and heading for the undefended lands beyond. The bulk of the horde was out of sight already, so this was likely the reserve force or perhaps just an unaffiliated group of monsters that had decided to capitalize on the opportunity presented by Sakkarot's success.

"I have not yet seen any response to the invasion from the Borderlands." Tiadora commented, following her gaze and studying the distant shape of the broken fortress. "I suspect that means that Zadaria was successful in her mission as well. The Seventh was sent to remove commanders and sabotage communication links throughout the region, to help ensure that the early days of the Fire Axe's campaign proceed favorably."

Mira said nothing, just turning her eyes from the sight and continuing to walk towards Lake Tarik. It wasn't that she regretted what she had done, for she'd gone into this assignment in the full knowledge of what the outcome would likely be, but it was still distasteful to think of the horrors that the Fire-Axe would be visiting on the pool souls that lay in his path. It was all the more uncomfortable to know that she held at least some responsibility for those atrocities, for if she had not flung open the gates of Balentyne the horde would have never made it across the border intact.

Still, it would all be worth it in the end. No matter what it took, she would make sure of that.

-/-

It was twelve days later when she met Adrastus Thorn once again. Tiadora had led her and Timeon to a ship anchored in Lake Tarik, a river barge designed to ferry cargo from one end of the kingdom to the other, and instructed them to wait. The barge was bound for Farholde, a frontier town on the western edge of the kingdom, and judging by the vacant smiles on the faces of the captain and crew when Tiadora delivered their orders there had been more than a little magic involved in its acquisition. They had set sail immediately, and for the most part proceeded to ignore their passengers as though they were just one more load of inanimate cargo to be delivered, a situation that suited Mira just fine. She would have preferred not to set foot on another boat for quite some time after the discomfort of the [i]Frosthamar[/i], but at least the barge frequently passed through small hamlets and near roadside inns where she could refresh herself and acquire proper supplies.

Tiadora had vanished shortly after departure, whisked away by her strange magics to some unknown destination. She had returned for short periods over the course of the journey, never lingering for long, and though she refused to speak of what it was that drew her away Mira had more than once seen spots of blood and streaks of ash on her skin and clothing. For her part Mira eventually just stopped wondering, content with the knowledge that the information was unlikely to impact her own work if the blond sorceress saw no need to share it.

On the twelfth day of their journey she was standing at the bow of the ship, watching the countryside roll by, when the door to the captain's cabin opened behind her and Tiadora emerged. In a particularly rare occurrence, her mysterious fellow agent was not smiling as she approached, simply gesturing back at the cabin with a grim expression on her face.

"The Master is inside." She said simply. "He commands that you attend him."

Mira nodded silently, glancing along the length of the boat and locating Timeon reclining atop one of the heavy crates full of genuine cargo that the barge carried. The rogue caught her gaze and rose without a word, falling into step behind her as she strode towards the cabin. He likely wouldn't be an active participator in whatever conversation was about to unfold, but having him around so that she could consult his knowledge or get his impression of something remained a good idea even so.

The interior of the cabin was plain and unimpressive, being little more than a desk and a few chairs arranged around a space too small to pass for any real office, but somehow Thorn managed to make it feel like a throne room with the sheer force of his presence. The Cardinal was seated on the other side of the desk, bedecked in his black and crimson robes and wearing the symbol of Asmodeus openly around his neck. He smiled at the sight of them, like a proud parent receiving positive reports of his children's accomplishments.

"Ah, my triumphant Ninth stands before me once more. Please, be seated." He said with a smile that was both approving and filled with malicious satisfaction. Mira did as instructed, taking a seat opposite the desk and folding her arms, while Timeon took up a standing position against the wall. "You have served me faithfully, Lady Barca, and I have rewarded you in both treasure and vengeance. Thanks to you the Fire-Axe has been unleashed, and even now he writes his name in blood across the borderlands."

"The war goes well, then?" Mira asked, leaning forwards slightly. It was hard to deny that she was curious about the events occurring in the lands they had left, for the barge had travelled down the river faster than than the news of the war could have spread to such minor settlements. Some days it almost felt like nothing had changed at all, no matter how much of an illusion she knew such an idea to be.

"Indeed it does. Three battles have been fought already, and three victories won." Thorn said in evident satisfaction. "The villages of Ambryl and Tarrington Fields lie sacked, and the fortress at Lorringsgate has fallen. Do not think I have forgotten you role in bringing these victories to fruition."

Mira nodded slowly, trying to recall the maps of north-eastern Talingarde that she had studied in preparation for her mission. If she remembered correctly, Lorringsgate was the next watch-fortress along from Balentyne, and the two villages named had lain on the direct path between them. If Sakkarot had turned his horde along the length of the Watch Wall then he was clearly planning for the long term, choosing to tear open a long stretch of the border before turning towards more valuable targets to the south. It made sense, since presumably the horde would be relying on reinforcements flowing down from the north to replace any losses sustained in the battles to come, and she had to admit that the move displayed a level of strategic insight she had not expected from the bugbears. Being told that Sakkarot was a skilled general was one thing, seeing evidence of it was quite another.

"Still, our work is not yet done." Thorn continued. "Talingarde does not yet bow to Asmodeus, nor has the land felt the full measure of our vengeance. Thus, I have another mission for you."

"A mission in Farholde?" Mira questioned, her gaze sharpening with interest. "To be honest, I have given thought to my destination more than once over the last week or so, and I cannot see the value in heading there. Unless more has changed in the last few months than I realize, Farholde is a frontier back-water; a decent trading hub for the region but hardly one that can influence the course of the nation as a whole."

"You are correct - Farholde itself is unimportant." Thorn replied with an approving nod at her display of initiative. "It's lord has already left with the majority of the garrison, hoping for glory in the war. The town itself could be destroyed tomorrow and the nation as a whole would hardly care. No, what interests me about Farholde is the fact that it lies directly adjacent to the Caer Byr, the largest untamed forest in the land."

Mira smiled thinly at that, for Thorn's words were something of an understatement. The Caer Byr was well known to all residents of Talingarde, though few gave it much thought or concerned themselves with what it contained. It was a primeval wilderness that dominated the majority of Talingarde's western coast, covering thousands of square miles in an endless tangle of forest and swampland that was generally uninhabitable by any civilised form of life.

"That makes a bit more sense, though I am still unsure what you hope to accomplish there... or rather, what I am to accomplish in your name." She said thoughtfully. "I know there are a great many monsters in the region, and there's always the barbaric Iraen to consider, but unless the intention is to turn some of them to our service and open a second front of the war I do not think those would be exceptionally useful."

"Indeed not. Oh, I'm sure a few barbarian raids along the western border might force the local lords to hold some of their forces back for protection and thus reduce the army that the King can call upon, but such paltry triumphs are unworthy of those who would serve the Lord of Ambition." Thorn said, waving away the idea as evidently irrelevant. "No, what I am concerned with is something much wider in scope. Specifically a ruin, located somewhere within the northern reaches of the Byr, known as the Horn of Abaddon. Eighty years ago, Markaddian the First lead a small strike force out of Farholde against the Horn, aimed at destroying the ones who had built and inhabited it - a death cult known as the Sons of the Pale Horseman. He succeeded, annihilating the cult and ending their influence in Talingarde, which all things considered was no great loss."

"I've not heard of that one." Mira said with a frown, leaning forwards again in interest. The deeds of the Victor were generally well known and celebrated by the populace, for though she hated him for what he had done to her family Mira could not deny that he had been a great man and a worthy King. The extermination of a death cult sounded like the sort of thing she would have expected to be one of his more lauded triumphs, given that it had all the classical elements of a heroic story contained in its very premise, but she'd never heard of the Victor even going to Farholde at all.

"I am not surprised." Thorn said with a smile. "The Victor did not encourage his men to speak of it, and generally did everything in his power to make people forget the Temple and what he had done there. Or to be more specific, what he _found_ there. The Sons of the Pale Horsemen were a mad and dangerous cult it is sure, but it was their leader that inspired the most hate and fear among those who knew of them, for they served a Daemon Lord known as Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes."

The cardinal drummed his fingers on the table between them, his expression that of someone revisiting an old memory. "It took me a great deal of time to find out what it was that frightened the Victor so much, time and more than a little luck. Vetra-Kali was an arch-deacon in service to the Horseman of Pestilence, and something of an expert at the creation of truly horrific and devastating plagues, which it released around the world with the aid of the Sons. The daemon never targeted Talingarde directly, doubtless using the distance between it and it's atrocities as a shield against discovery, but it seems the Victor was not content to wait until the fiend inevitably changed that policy. He banished the daemon, destroyed the cult and with the aid of the Mitran priests that accompanied him, fashioned a great silver seal that would prevent the creature from ever returning to this plane. A commendably thorough victory, all in all."

Mira sighed, a small smile on her lips. "It sounds as though you want something in that temple, my lord. That ruined, disease-ridden temple built by daemon-worshipping death cultists in the middle of a jungle. Why do I feel like I am not going to enjoy this task?"

"No one ever said service to Asmodeus would be easy." Thorn returned the smile, genuine amusement colouring his tone. "Still, you are correct; what I desire is within the Horn. Or, to be more specific, that is the only place it can be obtained. When the Victor attacked Vetra-Kali was close to completing its masterpiece, a plague of unsurpassed virulence known as the 'Tears of Achlys'. That plague is what I desire, for it will be the poisoned dagger that we may thrust into the heart of Talingarde."

"I already have agents standing by in the great cities of the kingdom, ready to spread the disease, and others taking measures to control and direct the damage in the appropriate manner. I need you to locate the temple, break the seal that the Victor placed within, call Vetra-Kali back to this plane and obtain from it the Tears of Achlys. With it we will weaken Talingarde and decimate its defenders, allowing the Fire-Axe to achieve victory on the battlefield."

Mira sat back in her chair, eyebrows raised. "Well, it's certainly an ambitious enough goal." She said eventually, once the magnitude of the task before her had begun to sink in. "I will confess, though, I would not have thought myself the ideal choice for something like this. Jungles and ancient ruins are not exactly my forte."

"You are correct. Unfortunately, the ideal choice for this mission was the fourth knot under the elven ranger Aiden Kael, all of whom appear to have died mysteriously trying to accomplish it." Thorn said, his voice rich with black humour. "They survived long enough to locate the Horn and confirm that it was located within a stone spire less than a day's ride from Farholde, but I have heard nothing from them since. It is possible that the place is guarded, either by something the Victor left behind or by new inhabitants that have moved in since."

"You are sure Kael is dead? Could he not have simply betrayed you?" Mira questioned, fighting the sinking feeling in her gut.

"If he _has_ betrayed me or otherwise failed, then he is still dead, he simply is not aware of it yet." Thorn said dismissively. "Still, I can appreciate your concern. Since the Horn is apparently more dangerous than I had initially supposed, I will dedicate more resources to this second effort. The Seventh Knot will go with you, to run interference and provide support from Farholde, and Tiadora will introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine in the area who may be able to assist further. There was once a thriving cult of Asmodeus in Farholde, and one of the more prominent members was the Baron Arkov Vandermir. The baron managed to escape the purges instituted by Markaddian the Zealous, generally by cutting ties with the cult and removing any evidence that linked him to it, and he has enough elven blood in his veins that he remains young and healthy even decades later. He is wealthy and connected, and knows me well enough to fear me, all of which should inspire him to help you if approached correctly."

"I shall forge an alliance, then. The aid of a local nobleman is not something to cast lightly aside." Mira said thoughtfully. It had been a while since she had last viewed her family tree, but if she remembered correctly it was likely that Baron Vandermir was actually a relative of some description. A distant cousin at most, in all likelihood, but it was still a useful place to start when it came to forging bonds of allegiance.

"Wisdom often missed by those without the appropriate levels of foresight." Thorn agreed. "Still, that is your mission. I do not care how long it takes, for armies are slow to muster and slower to travel, so it is unlikely that the King will meet the Fire-Axe on the field of battle for at least a year. What matters is that you are successful, for failing me in this task would be... unwise. Now, since the barge will arrive in Farholde tomorrow, this will likely be your last chance to question me for some time. Is there anything you need to know, that you might better accomplish your task?

Mira nodded slowly, trying to determine how best to phrase her concerns without appearing disrespectful or insubordinate. "I... must confess some trepidation at the idea of summoning a plague daemon. It seems like an extraordinary risk to take."

"Vetra-Kali is a tool. Nothing more, nothing less." Thorn replied in a dismissive tone. "Still, if you are concerned, then I do not particularly care if you take steps to remove the threat once we have what we want. The summoning will likely place you in a position of power over the daemon, at least for a time, and it is likely to have been weakened by its long banishment and the stresses of summoning. Perhaps you could do what even the Victor could not, and end the threat it poses for all time."

The lack of concern Thorn seemed to have for the consequences of unleashing a powerful daemon on the land was more than a little alarming, but Mira crushed her misgivings beneath ruthless practicality. The Cardinal was set on this course, and she did not have the power or influence to defy him. Better, then, to seek some way to mitigate the fallout. Perhaps she could find a way to covertly advise her family to begin investing in magical protections from disease...

"How much do we know about the Seal that binds the daemon?" She asked next, intent on gathering as much useful intelligence as she could while the opportunity lay within her grasp.

"Not much." Thorn said, and this time his words contained more than a hint of frustration. "Church records are remarkably vague, likely as a measure to prevent work such as ours. I know it was a mundane object at first, which the Victor apparently consecrated with seven days of continuous prayer. Beyond that, it is a sacred object to a declared enemy of Asmodeus, which would be sufficient to warrant its destruction even independently of the greater cause."

Disappointed, Mira could only nod. It seemed that she would have to rely on her own skills more than outside aid for this task. With that it mind, she came to her third question. "I fought a paladin at Balentyne - the Lord-Commander, Thomas Havelyn. He seemed to display a grasp of divine magic beyond that which I can call upon. Is that a distinction between our power, or is it something I could learn to do myself?"

It did not escape her notice how Thorn's gaze sharpened at the mention of the Lord-Commander, and she made a mental note of that fact. Was there some personal enmity there? If so, it was another step in the path towards unravelling the mystery that was Cardinal Thorn.

"Ah, I did promise you some tutoring in that direction when we first met, didn't I?" The Cardinal said after a moment, smile reappearing on his face. "Very well. I will have certain tomes delivered to you once you find the Horn, for you to study and use to perfect your skills. The bulk of your talents still lie in a more martial direction, but magic is a useful tool indeed. Was there anything else?"

Mira shook her head, and Thorn smiled. "Very well then. Tiadora will give you another of the clay seals that you may use to contact me with reports on your progress. Otherwise, I look forwards to hearing of your success. Now, go with the blessings of the Prince of Hell and see this mission done!"


	18. Act Five - Meeting the Baron

Way of the Wicked Chapter Seventeen

Farholde was a city shaped by water. By virtue of its location the city defined the north-west corner of Talingarde, sitting as it did barely half a mile from the coast and playing host to the westernmost installment of the Watch Wall in the form of Castle Hamarhall, and through the strength of its many rivers it served as a trading hub for much of the western borderlands. The mighty Lake Scardynn to the east was rich with fish and other aquatic life, just about all of which were edible in some fashion, and every day saw dozens of small boats plying its waters in search of the next big catch. More important and defining than all of those, however, were the floods.

Every year, in the first weeks of spring as the winter slackened its grasp and the ice began to melt, the waters of the Scardynn and its associated Delta would swell and then overflow with fresh water. Rivers burst their banks and the edges of the lake would expand until mile upon mile of land lay submerged for weeks at a time. As a result just about all of Farholde was built atop a narrow cluster of hills, elevated above the flood-water where possible or else relying on firm foundations of quarried stone to resist the effects of being submerged annually. When the floodwaters receded the townsfolk would descend from their shelters and begin working to exploit the new bounty of fresh and rich soil deposited by the water on their farmlands.

As the commandeered barge floated slowly down the river and angled in towards the docks, Mira stood at the prow and studied the city carefully. While she didn't know precisely what would be involved in returning Vetra-Kali to the mortal plane and obtaining her objective from it, she was reasonably certain that it would be neither simple nor quick. The daemon might have been banished from this world, but that wouldn't have prevented it from communicating with its peers in Abaddon or possibly reaching back across the veil and inspiring some lone lunatic to act on its behalf. That the daemon remained banished, then, implied that such methods of engineering a return were insufficient. She'd need to work out how the banishment had been achieved, what could be done to reverse it and then formulate and carry out a plan, each step of which would likely take a fair amount of time. That meant she was going to be in the area for the foreseeable future, which in turn meant she needed to get a solid grasp on Farholde's essential character.

So far, she wasn't feeling particularly impressed. The city had a sharply limited amount of room to work with when it came to permanent buildings, which in turn meant that just about everywhere that was reliably above the waterline was full of densely-packed buildings. There wasn't room for sprawling mansions or large courtyards, so the locals had generally built vertically instead, whether that meant ramshackle piles of tenements or dramatically imposing towers that seemed to look over the rest of the city like disapproving elders. All in all, Farholde gave the impression of being cramped, a dense warren of tightly packed buildings and narrow streets seething with inhabitants. Not exactly somewhere she looked forwards to staying for any length of time.

The one exception on both accounts lay in the natural valley between two of the main hills; a rambling shantytown of half-wooden buildings and canvas tents arranged with little thought for aesthetics or public convenience. That it lay below the waterline suggested that most of the buildings there were either temporary or otherwise belonged to those too destitute to move their possessions out of the reach of the rising floodwaters each year, which in turn indicated that it was probably the 'bad part of town'. A quick survey of the relative positioning provided more evidence for her conclusion, as the shantytown was separated from the rest of the city by the ringed walls around each of the hills. Chances were any law enforcement would be based near the centre of one of the hills, and based on where the gates had been placed on each wall the only way to access the shantytown from there would be to leave the city proper and slog across several hundred yards of muddy shoreline. Mira suspected most of the watchmen probably wouldn't bother, at least not on a regular basis, and those few that did would be seen approaching far in advance.

All of which meant that the shantytown was going to be the best place, bar none, for her to actually set up the core of her operation. There would be no finer place in all of Farholde for her to acquire smugglers, thieves and thugs eager to work for a little coin, and nowhere more likely to play host to some actual entertainment. It might not be spoken of in polite circles, but every child of Barca learned at some point that there was more than one way for the nobility to lead the rest of their countrymen. Sometimes you needed your servants to be immaculately dressed and discretely efficient, and sometimes you needed them to be coldly intimidating and capable of shocking brutality. The absolute best kind, of course, could be either or both as the situation demanded, but such flexible characters tended to be in short supply at the best of times.

Still, such thoughts were for the future. She hadn't even walked off the boat yet, let alone established a presence in Farholde in any meaningful capacity, so calculating the ideal type of servant to recruit into her private army was probably thinking at least a few too many steps ahead. For the moment she had other concerns, and with that thought in mind she turned away from watching the approaching dock and faced her companions.

"Timeon." She said, and the young man broke off his own observation to look at her. "When we dock, start seeing what you can find out about Aiden Kael. Hopefully there's still some kind of trail, since we know he was here a few weeks ago and there can't be too many elves looking to explore the Caer Byr. We also know he found our target before vanishing, so an ideal result would be either locating the man himself or some of his notes that indicate where precisely the Horn is. Try to get a feel for the town as well while you're at it - chances are we'll be here for some time."

The rogue inclined his head. "I'll need some gold." He said bluntly, a slightly distracted tone to his voice as he began formulating plans and rehearsing lines of inquiry. "For bribes, buying rumours with drinks, stuff like that."

Nodding, Mira removed a small purse from her belt and tossed it, Timeon snatching it out of the air in turn. Most of her wealth was stored in a small chest, which in turn was stored in the bottom of her pack as a precaution against thieves, leaving only a small portion easily to hand for everyday business. What she had provided should be more than enough for a relatively simple task such as this, and if by some unlucky chance Timeon ran into someone who demanded more in exchange for his information... well, he was an intelligent man. He'd figure something out.

That dealt with, she turned her attention to Tiadora next, who was studying her with a raised eyebrow and a vaguely challenging look in her eye. Well aware that issuing instructions or outright orders to the blond woman would likely end badly, Mira instead adopted a more conciliatory tone.

"I understand that you are to provide an introduction to Baron Vandemir? Have you a preferred method?"

Tiadora smiled, as though approving of Mira's caution and the respect that lay behind it. "Indeed I do. We have an invitation to dinner tonight, at his manor on Calliver Green; Best to wear something nice."

Mira raised an eyebrow. "I had thought to use the circlet..."

Tiadora frowned, and there was a sharp edge to the glint in her eye. "It is a matter of propriety. To pay a visit to someone in crude garb hidden by a pretty illusion means much the same as giving them copper jewelry covered with gold paint. The potential insult to one's host is bad enough, but the statement about your own resources and capabilities if you cannot muster something appropriate for the occasion is worse."

For a moment, Mira spared a thought to wonder precisely where it was that Tiadora was from, that the rules of formal etiquette had grown to encompass the use of illusionary disguise. "I see. Then I will of course find something suitable. Although... it has been some time since I had the will or need to pay attention to the dictates of fashion and personal appearance in a civilian setting. Might I prevail upon you for advice in such matters?"

The smile on Tiadora's face grew almost predatory, and briefly Mira thought she might have committed some error or otherwise given her fellow agent cause to take offense. Still, the foreigner's tone gave no indication of such ire as she responded, and indeed managed to sound almost obscurely pleased.

"I suppose I have no more pressing engagements for the afternoon, and an activity such as this might almost be considered nostalgic. Very well, I shall assist you... though you, of course, shall be providing the funds."

"I have something of an ominous premonition at the prospect, but agreed." Mira said dryly. "Timeon, find us rooms at an inn while you're about things, booked for a week or so, and get the supplies moved in. It seems I will be... otherwise engaged."

With that, the three of them fell silent and simply waited as the barge slowly approached the long stretch of shoreline that served as the Farholde docks. Some of the piers were built of stone and raised to be serviceable even in times of flood, while others were wooden and had the look of structures to be abandoned when the need arose, but all were busy dealing with a dozen or more docked ships and a population of dock-hands and sailors that numbered in the hundreds. Few paid much attention to the barge as it drifted in towards a vacant berth and began to dock, likely dismissing it as just another river trader here to stock up on goods that could be sold on in a dozen minor villages for later profit.

Tiadora moved to disembark even before the ship had completely stopped, stepping from the moving deck onto the pier without the slightest hesitation or sign of instability, and Mira hurried to catch up. Together they headed for the city proper, just two more faces blending easily into the crowd.

"You said that providing such assistance was 'nostalgic'." Mira said as they walked, cautious about offending her companion but determined to seize the relatively rare opportunity for information gathering that this represented. "Have you performed such duties before?"

"Indeed, many times." Tiadora answered at length, apparently having decided to indulge Mira's curiousity. "In my homeland, I was... the closest word in your tongue is 'handmaiden', though the translation is imprecise. I and those like me serve the land's female rulers and members of the aristocracy, providing advice and obeying their orders. There are many factors that must be given due consideration if one hopes for any degree of success, how to present yourself among them. It is trait that persists between realms and across multiple cultures, even if the specifics differ."

"Fascinating." Mira murmured, intrigued by the small hints of the larger picture that Tiadora's words provided. Side by side, they left the docks and began striding along one of the paved roads that led up into Farholde proper. "You will, I hope, forgive me for saying that your demeanour does not match that of a servant."

There was a distinctly amused tint to Tiadora's words as she replied. "Neither is yours, even though you serve at the orders of a higher power and perform tasks upon their behalf."

Mira frowned slightly at being referred to as a 'servant', but she supposed the label was technically accurate. If one considered loyalty to a God as a form of service, then just about every human being on the planet was a servant of one kind or another, bound together in a web of obligation and obedience. Some would likely find such a comparison horrifying, lashing out in instinctive rebellion, but as far as she was concerned such was simply the way that the world worked. Unless you were willing to walk off into the wilderness and live entirely by your own resources you had to accept a level of servitude somewhere in your life. Even those who attempted such a thing weren't so much standing free as abandoning their responsibilities.

She wondered for a moment what it might look like, if you could draw all of those bonds and obligations that held society together and map them onto some great piece of parchment. It would probably be a tremendous mess, but there might be a few enlightening discoveries to be made by studying it all the same.

"Your point is well taken." She said at last, as they reached the gates into Farholde and passed the guards standing watch there. A few of the soldiers gave the two attractive women an appreciative look as they walked past, but such was easily dismissed as being beneath notice. "I think the term 'retainer' might suit you better, from what I understand, but in the end that's probably a meaningless distinction. What drove you to serve Thorn, then? It must have been quite a trip."

"He summoned me." Tiadora said simply, not slowing her stride even as they moved through the streets as though she expected everyone else to simply get out of her way. In truth, most did, repelled by the aura of confidence and danger that seemed to surround the blond woman for several feet in all directions. "The Cardinal is a man of many resources, and he has never been willing to settle for less than the best when he selects his personal agents. For work such as he desired done, I or one of my sisters was a fine choice, if not one easily obtained."

She seemed about to say something else, but was momentarily interrupted by one of the few passers-by that did not immediately get out of her way. A band of children, dressed in well-worn clothes and with smudges of dirt upon their cheeks ran out from a nearby alleyway, pursuing one of their number with joyful shouts in what was obviously some kind of game. The leader, too busy fleeing to pay proper attention to his surroundings, all but collided with Tiadora at a full sprint. Mira might have expected the blond woman to be knocked over by the impact, but instead the boy almost seemed to rebound from her legs as though he had run straight into a wall, sprawling on the ground with a look of mingled shock and pain on his face.

"Ow!" He cried, turning to look up at her. "That hurt, you..."

Whatever the child had been about to say trailed off as he got a good look at the face of the woman that he'd barreled into. His face went white under the dirt that smudged it, and he scrambled backwards across the street on all fours like a whipped dog, as though desperate to put some distance between himself and Tiadora. The movement brought him back into contact with the rest of his companions, but none of them took the opportunity to tag him, all standing as still and as quiet as they could, pinned to the ground under the weight of the stranger's gaze.

"Leave." Tiadora said in a voice that was almost a hiss, her words ringing with unmistakeable command and more than a little threat. None of the children chose to risk discovering what terrible fate would befall them for disobedience, turning tail and fleeing back into the alleyway as fast as their legs could carry them. Tiadora watched them go with a look on her face that was somewhere between hatred and revulsion.

"So... not a fan of children, I see." Mira commented dryly. She'd met people who didn't care for the younger generation before, of course, but none who reacted to contact with them in quite the same way. Tiadora had almost seemed personally offended by the mere sight of them. "The brat probably didn't mean anything by it. You've never seen a gang of kids get a bit over-enthusiastic at play?"

"I have not." Tiadora said shortly, starting to move again and leading them down one of the other side-streets and deeper into the city. "We do not have them where I am from."

"You don't have children?" Mira asked in some surprise, raising her eyebrows. "Your words imply many strange things about your homeland, but that has to be the oddest yet. Where do you come from, anyway?"

"Hell." Tiadora said simply. "The city of Dis, to be specific."

The word seemed to shift, and Mira staggered slightly as the nature and weight of that admission overpowered her surprise and complacency. She glanced down, as though checking the road for whatever loose stone had tripped her up, mind spinning even as she performed the rote actions to deflect any attention the move might have gathered from anyone watching.

"Oh dear." Tiadora said quietly, a malicious smile on her face as she stopped and turned to face the fallen knight. "You look shocked. Why, did you think me a mortal?"

"But you look..." Mira said weakly, realising her mistake a moment later. She shook her head and took a moment to regain her mental equilibrium. "Of course you do. You could hardly perform your missions on this plane without some manner of disguise, after all."

"Indeed not. Do you have any idea how hard it is to infiltrate and overthrow the bastions of heaven's will on earth when even the lowliest peasant can tell you just crawled out from the depths of the Nine Hells?" Tiadora said with a smirk. "Even the lowly imps have the ability to hide themselves from view if required. I merely take a... more thorough approach. But enough about me; I think I see a rather nice shop over there, and we need you properly attired for our evening's engagement."

-/-

Three hours later, as the sun began to dip low towards the horizon, Mira made her way through the streets of Farholde's more exclusive districts and began to approach her destination. Gone were the practical riding clothes and the infernal armour, stashed away in the private room that Timeon had hired at one of the better inns. Instead, she wore a long dress of emerald green, cut to subtly accentuate her figure without being crude, the colour chosen to compliment her eyes and as a subtle reference to the noble blood in her veins. Green and red were the colours of Barca, just as white and blue were those of Darius, and given the agenda for tonight's meeting she felt a reminder of her legacy a fine thing to choose.

At her side walked Tiadora, once more clad in a brilliant white dress that seemed to suggest an almost angelic level of purity. Knowing what she now did of the blond woman Mira could not help but find the implication vaguely blasphemous, which she supposed was probably the point. Meanings behind meanings, each understood only by those with the proper perspective and information; certainly appropriate for a resident of the Infernal City. Side by side they strode, dominating the scene by mere virtue of their presence, drawing more than a few curious looks from the other inhabitants of the area as they passed through. That they were rich and influential was undeniable given their attire and the way that they carried themselves, but none who saw them could put a name to the faces, and newcomers of status would always attract some curiosity. It was attention she might have preferred to avoid on a purely pragmatic level, but as Tiadora said, it was a matter of principle. She would not come and go like a thief in the night, but proclaim her existence (if not her allegiance) boldly and allow others to react to her as they may.

Ahead of them lay Calliver Green, the wealthiest and most exclusive district of the city, taking the form of a gentle hill covered in grass and surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. There were but six estates on the hill, arranged in a great circle around a central park and communal garden, each built to its own design and commanding an excellent view over the rest of the city. In a settlement such as Farholde, where space was at a premium and most buildings were crammed together in a tight warren of towers and bridges, the mere existence of so much empty space was in itself a statement of wealth and power, it's secondary function as a dividing line between the patricians and the common folk merely a happy by-product.

There was a single gate in the metal fence, watched over by a hard-faced guard in beautiful livery and bearing weapons of exceptional make. He nodded to the two of them as they approached, evidently having been instructed to expect visitors matching their descriptions, and opened the gate to allow them access. Passing him, Mira was once again reminded of the uncomfortable lack of a sword at her belt, but had to concede that such a thing would have been grossly out of touch with the rest of her appearance and might have given Baron Vandermir entirely the wrong idea. Besides, it wasn't as though she was harmless, not when the gifts of Asmodeus empowered her to slay a man with but the lightest touch.

With that cheerful thought in mind, she followed Tiadora as the she-devil made her way towards one of the six estates with a confident stride. This particular mansion was not the most ostentatious of those on display, but considering that one of the others likely belonged to the local Duke that was probably a prudent decision. Instead it was built in a classical style, with quality materials that likely had to be shipped in from some considerable distance and an air of understated grandeur that impressed itself upon visitors with quiet insistence. The only obvious decoration was a large family crest emblazoned on the front wall; a roaring griffon on a background of crossed swords. Mira took note of the similarities to the Barcan family crest and found herself feeling obscurely pleased, for it took a certain kind of man to prominently display their relationship with a deposed ruling class, and such men were precisely the kind of allies she was hoping to gain here.

As expected, Baron Vandermir had made full use of his rights under the law to maintain a personal guard of well-equipped soldiers under his direct command, at least a dozen of which could be seen patrolling the grounds of the manor or otherwise keeping watch for any potential threat. One was stationed by the main door, and he was the one who stepped forwards to meet them as they approached.

"Baron Vandermir is expecting us." Tiadora said with casual confidence, not even breaking stride as she moved towards the main door of the manor. The guard glanced down at a clipboard held in one hand, then nodded and pushed the door open in front of them.

"Of course, my lady. Welcome."

The guard was a professional soldier, well used to hiding his feelings beneath a mask of professional courtesy, but even so Mira could detect a trace of nervousness in his tone as the man stepped out of their way. As they passed, she glanced at him and the list he held, wondering if she might find a clue to help explain those nerves. All she could see was the top line on the list, written in sharp, clipped letters.

 _Expect a lady in white and her retinue. Be polite - she has powerful friends. V._

Well, that was an interesting insight, if not particularly surprising. Thorn had mentioned that the Baron knew enough to fear him, and it was likely that fear which had provided the leverage to arrange this meeting. She wondered precisely how much the Baron actually did know about the Cardinal, for power came in many forms and many deeds could earn a measure of fear and obedience from those wise enough to heed them. Did he know who Thorn was and what he sought, or was it the simple wariness and respect that anyone with any sense showed to a powerful spellcaster of unknown capabilities? Discovering the shape and limits of that knowledge would be a significant step in understanding the ties that bound the Baron and the Cardinal together, and such knowledge might in turn broaden her own understanding of the mysterious priest that owned her allegiance.

As they stepped through the door and into the main house, a small platoon of servants descended upon them from all directions, fussing over them with all of the expected deference owed to important guests. A smartly dressed butler directed them into a small waiting room while directing other members of the staff to alert the Baron of their arrival, while lower ranked servants presented them with trays full of small sweet-meats and glasses of brandy to make their wait more tolerable. It was in many ways an almost nostalgic experience, and Mira could not help but smile slightly as she allowed the servants to guide her through the house and set the scene with professional expertise. It had been quite some time since she had been fussed over like this, but the memories of simpler days such treatment conjured up were very much welcome. One day she would hold power and status to be treated as such in any Talirean house, but until then this small taste would have to do.

The art of keeping guests waiting for their host's pleasure was an old and accepted part of noble politics, to the point where several books had been written explaining the intricate subtleties for those unwilling to risk the embarrassing errors inherent in learning such things through experience, but in this case they had scarcely been waiting more than a couple of minutes before the butler reappeared and ushered them through into the dining hall. That was an interesting decision on the Baron's part, for it betrayed what might be an almost unseemly eagerness for the meeting or else a desire to have it over and done with as soon as possible. Mira exchanged a glance with Tiadora as they followed the servant, and saw in her eyes that the blond woman had likewise picked up on the potential implications, but neither was so foolish as to give voice to their thoughts in the middle of their host's own home.

The dining hall was an impressive enough place given its location in a relative backwater settlement, the architect having evidently made good use of the readily available wood from the Caer Byr when designing it. The long table that ran the whole length of the room could likely be called upon to seat dozens of guests if required, but for the moment only three places were set with cutlery, all clustered around one end along with all of the food. Apparently this was to be a relatively private meeting, then, a decision which suited Mira just fine.

Sitting at the head of the table, and pointedly not rising as his guests entered, was the man who could only be Baron Vandermir. He was a tall and slender man dressed in burgundy and white, with a full head of rich black hair that fell to his shoulders. The faint signs of an elvish heritage could be seen in the slightly pointed edges of his ears and his youthful, almost boyish looks, but it was his eyes that drew the attention more than anything else, for they were old and filled with the kind of calculating insight that betrayed many decades of experience.

The Baron did not say a word as the servants led Mira and Tiadora to the table and bustled around them preparing everything for the meal, lifting the lids from plates of cooked pig and unveiling bowls full of artfully presented vegetables. It was only once they were finished and dismissed from the room with a single gesture that he deigned to finally speak.

"So," He said, drumming his fingers on the table top and speaking with an almost archaic accent. "You come to me as beggars, the last remnants of a forbidden faith. You will promise me much, of that I have no doubt, but the only reward I am likely to gain from aiding you is a place on the inquisitor's pyre. Tell me, why should I aid you, or do anything save banishing you from my house and my city?"

Mira could not help but raise an eyebrow at the opening gambit, but resisted the urge to glance at Tiadora. They had agreed before their arrival that this would be her fight, for if she lacked the wit to convince the Baron to aid them then she was by definition unworthy of Tiadora's assistance. Instead she reached over and picked up a sparkling crystal glass full of wine, raising it in a silent and pointed toast to the nobleman.

"Must we move straight to insults, Baron?" She asked in an amused tone, choosing to set aside any anger she might feel about being called a 'beggar' to her face. "One should think you have manners enough to at least wait for introductions before progressing to such vulgar methods."

The baron's eyes narrowed, but he read the implications behind his guests' behaviour and correctly identified Mira as the one responsible for these negotiations. "The reputation of your kind speaks for itself in many ways, and I have no patience for the delicate dance of implication and insinuation with which you would seek to ensnare me. If you have a case to make then speak it clearly or not at all, for my hospitality has already been strained by the less than subtle threats employed to bring this meeting about."

"My kind? More accurate, I think, to say our kind, for we share more common elements than you might suppose." Mira said with a smile, taking a sip of wine before continuing and finding herself well pleased with the taste. "Let us start with a name, though. I am Mirabelle of House Barca, Knight-Captain of the Watch. Or I was until comparatively recently."

That drew a reaction, albeit one restricted to a slight widening of the eyes and a momentary pause. Still, when the Baron spoke next his tone was at least a shade more respectful. "Lady Barca? Well, it seems your master has chosen quite shrewdly when selecting his envoy, though I find myself curious as to what relevance it has. There may be bonds of distant family between us, but only the faintest and most tenuous, and while I have the greatest respect for your family I have no feudal obligation to you."

"Even if you did I would hardly be in position to call upon them." Mira responded, a small concession offered in exchange for an appearance of honesty and reason. "In making the mistake of crossing House Darius on one of their favoured issues I have found myself stripped of all official position. By the laws of the land I am a condemned outlaw, and your civic duty would be to report my presence to the watch that I might be arrested once more and executed for my crimes. Do not think I am unaware of the reality of the situation presented to us."

"Well, this is an interesting tactic." The Baron mused, settling back in his chair. "Most would seek to argue their case from a position of strength, yet you seem determined to strip away all the factors by which I might be obligated to aid you."

Mira smiled, knowing that the initial hurdle had been passed, for the Baron was at least engaging in genuine debate now instead of calling for his guards to banish her from the estate. "That is because I do not seek the service of obligation from you, but rather the support of allies brought together by mutual interest. Such arrangements are sturdier than most, and I can ill-afford the offense that might be offered if I approached this matter in any other way. Diabolists have a well-deserved reputation for manipulation and deception, but I find honesty a valid negotiating tool as well, if one rarely employed to full effect."

"Yes, you have spoken of this 'common cause' before." Baron Vandermir said slowly, picking up his cutlery and cutting a choice piece of meat for his plate. "What ties do you imagine exist that bind us together, then, for I can see few of note beyond the distantly familial."

"I did my research before coming here, as you might expect, seeking to understand the kind of man you were." Mira said mildly. "I therefore know that the elvish blood in your veins has endowed you with some measure of their longevity, to the point where you witnessed in person much of what I know as simple history."

She took another sip of her wine, and then made her voice deliberately light. "Tell me, how many of your relatives died on the fields of Tamberlyn?"

Arkov Vandermir froze then, a moment of complete inactivity before he shook off the emotions conjured by her words. She had guessed correctly, it seemed, though in truth it had been a reasonable enough gambit to take. The Battle of Tamberlyn had been the deciding confrontation in the war between the Houses of Barca and Darius, where the old regime was broken and King Jarrad brought down. Just about every member of the old aristocracy had lost someone in that conflict, names of the fallen still remembered even decades later.

"My father died there." The Baron spoke at last. "As did several cousins, including King Jarrad. A painful wound, it is true, but one eighty years past by now. I am no dwarf, to hold onto grudges through the centuries and sustain myself on cold hate alone."

"And were that the only harm done to you by the House of Darius I might well agree, but we both know that such was not the extent of it." Mira pressed on, exploiting her momentary advantage. "Evidently the Victor permitted you to hold onto your father's land and titles, much as he did for my own ancestors. But we both know that such a decision was driven by simple pragmatism on his part more than any real desire for unity... or would you say he was as gracious in victory as the stories claim?"

"I was made to kneel at his feet." The Baron said after a pause, carefully setting down the cutlery in his hands lest he give into the temptation to fling them across the room. "In full sight of his entire court, I renounced my pledges of loyalty to the old King and swore them anew to the Darians. Then I forsook the worship of Asmodeus, who had been my family's patron for ten generations or more, and announced my devotion to the Shining Lord. So no, he was not especially gracious."

Mira smiled, though there was some measure of sympathy in her gaze as she looked at him. "And in the eighty years since that day, unless your experience has been much different to my own, you have watched as he and his faith consolidated their power. Watched as positions held by old families for generations were pried away one by one, bestowed upon the yapping lapdogs that curled at their feet. Watched as the Darians slew each other or went mad, as they crushed all dissent and condemned hundreds to a horrible death for their faith, as step by step they eradicated all traces of the old world and replaced it with one more to their liking. Do I speak wrong?"

"Your words hold truth. I have no love for the House of Darius." The Baron said, pausing before continuing. "No, it would be more accurate to say that I hate them. Yet as you have observed I remain a senior and respected member of the local aristocracy, a position that I have held through eighty years of Darian rule. My hate runs deep and true, but it was not enough to compel me towards open rebellion before, nor to providing aid to enemies of the realm. Why do you think today will be any different?"

In that moment, Mira knew that she had him. For all his bluster and doubt, it was clear that Baron Vandermir wanted to help, that he wanted to believe an opportunity for revenge might have finally fallen within his grasp. All she had to do in order to secure his assistance was provide proof of that opportunity. Fortunately, she had precisely the tools to accomplish such an end.

"Two weeks ago," She said slowly, aware that she was about to spill a dangerous secret but willing to take a gamble, "I was in the town of Aldencross. A sleepy little place for the most part, lent wider relevance in national affairs solely by its proximity to the Watch Fortress Balentyne."

The Baron's eyes widened, and for a moment he almost seemed prepared to go for a weapon or call for his guards. "Are you telling me that you sabotaged the Wall and let those monsters through?"

"I am." Mira admitted, taking momentary pleasure in the thrill of confessing such a deed. "The Wall is broken, and Sakkarot Fire-Axe leads his barbarian horde through the borderlands, pillaging and burning… far away from your own territories, or those of anyone else with reason to oppose Darius in the courts."

She paused for a moment to let the implication sink in, though in truth she had no idea whether the political landscape had been a consideration in Thorn's choice of Balentyne for her target. It was a reasonable idea, however, and that lent it further weight in the Baron's ears. "One blow has been struck against the House of Darius. In Farholde, I seek the tools to strike another. All across Talingarde, other plans are in motion, plans that will break the stranglehold that the Church of Mitra has upon this realm and see the House of Darius forever broken."

"You risk the destruction of everything there is in the fires of your ambition." Baron Vandermir whispered, though the tone of his voice contained both horror and wonder in equal measure.

"Nothing less will suffice." Mira replied. "You held to the faith of Asmodeus once, you know the principles he takes as his own. No petty assassination or small-minded act of terrorism would gain the approval and support of Hell. But we are going to remake this nation, break it apart and then forge it anew in the fires of war. By the time we are done, Talingarde will stand proud and stronger than ever before, a new world of order and glory to put all the histories to shame."

She extended one hand, open and inviting. "There is a place for you in that new world, Baron… though such might not be your title for very much longer. If nothing else, Duke Welshire is going to meet a very unfortunate end upon the battlefield, and unless I miss my guess that will leave you in effective control of Farholde. Silence and non-involvement already stands to gain you increased status and prestige – I assure you that the rewards for full cooperation are vastly greater. All you have to do is reach out and take them."

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence in the dining hall. Then, with a sly smile creeping across his face, Baron Arkov Vandermir reached out and picked up his glass. He peered at the wine for a moment, as though the secrets of the future could be found in its depths, and then raised it high in a traditional toast.

"To revenge, and a glorious future. Hail Asmodeus."


	19. Act Five - Reunion

Way of the Wicked Chapter Eighteen

The sun had only recently climbed over the horizon and already the streets of Farholde were bustling with activity. Merchants hurried to open their shops and take advantage of the day's business, dockside labourers wandered in the general direction of their assigned positions, and two visiting mercenaries strolled towards the headquarters of the Town Watch without a care in the world.

"Are you sure about this?" Asked Timeon, who had discarded his long cloak in favour of the concealment offered by anonymity. So close to the border, Farholde was a magnet for mercenaries and adventurers of all types, so no-one gave the young man in leather armour a second glance. Even the attention directed his way by the occasional patrolling watchman was little more than professional interest directed towards an unknown face with a sword at his belt, but so long as he did nothing to arouse further suspicion even they were content to pass on by without a word.

"We have a need for muscle, and this was who the Baron recommended." Mira replied, her own equipment swapped out for a light chain shirt that poked out from under her leather jerkin. It wasn't real, any more than the bow strapped to her back was real, but she's always found it useful to look professionally dangerous when walking through the streets of an unknown town. She'd elected not to disguise her appearance while working alongside the Baron, for it was hard to call upon the influence of powerful associates if no-one could connect you to them, but that meant that any number of shady groups could potentially be taking note of this relative newcomer to their town. It was always possible that one of them might try something foolish, especially if they counted themselves an enemy of her new friend Arkov, so looking tough and experienced enough to dissuade assault seemed a sensible precaution.

"I'm not disputing that. What concerns me is exactly how _reliable_ this muscle is." Timeon continued, nodding politely to a couple of passers by when they glanced over at him. "Generally people who find themselves imprisoned for starting a massive brawl in the street are not the kind best suited for our line of work. I might prefer a bit more discretion in my new colleague."

Mira smiled wolfishly. "Discretion is a valuable trait. The ability to pull a man's arms from their sockets is, in certain situations, more so. Don't worry, I won't be relying on him for any intelligence gathering missions. Speaking of which, did you find what we needed?"

The spy nodded. "I did. Our elven friend was staying at a place called 'The Wandering Friar'. The innkeeper was maybe a few days from having his room cleared out and sold to someone else. I used that gold to clear the overdue bill, plus a little extra for the inconvenience, and he let me right in." Timeon paused there for a moment. "I guess he probably figured I was connected to whatever reason Kael had for vanishing in such a mysterious fashion. Anyway, I found some of the maps he'd been working on to keep track of his exploration. It seems what we're looking for is in one of the stone spires that dot the northern reaches of the Caer Byr, maybe a day's ride away. I'm a little surprised no-one else has discovered it before, actually."

"I asked the Baron about that over dinner." Mira replied with a thoughtful expression. "It seems that the 'Briar', to use the name the locals give it, is rather ridiculously dangerous. For once the stories about somewhere being a monster-infested wilderness actually seem to be accurate. Apparently he's seen several generations of adventurous youths hit upon the genius idea of exploring the Briar, and remarkably fewer survivors stagger back into town days later and decide that the hills are a much nicer place to spend one's days."

"Ah. Well, at least we're following in the footsteps of a venerable tradition." Timeon said dryly, before nodding in the direction of the building they were approaching. "Anyway, we're almost here. I take it you actually have a plan for getting our new friend out of his cell?"

"Of course." Mira said with a smile. "I'm going to pay his bail."

"Huh." Timeon said slowly, his expression one of relative surprise. "You know, I actually didn't consider that. We're criminals, so I was sort of assuming we'd have to break him out rather than just playing by the rules."

"Lots of people think that, on both sides of the law." Mira replied, pausing in the street to get a good look at the watch-station and to make sure her point was well understood. "It's why people are always shocked when they find out that a good, law-abiding fellow can commit crime as easily as the lowest gutter rat when it makes sense to do so. We must always make sure we don't get locked into a single method of thought or a particular way of doing things, because not only will we miss valuable opportunities, we will also become predictable. There's no enemy better to have than a predictable one."

She paused thoughtfully there for a moment. "Of course, on a more philosophical level I would rather work within the laws and customs of society where possible, even if it's less personally convenient. The value of a stable society and a reliable system of laws vastly outweighs the benefits of indulging my own personal convenience."

Leaving her agent to think on that, Mira straightened her posture and strode on up to the watch station. Truth be told she'd been harbouring more than a few doubts about exactly how easy this would turn out to be, but as she spoke to the guards on duty and began to move through the standard procedures it became rapidly apparent that she'd been worrying over nothing. It seemed that Arkov Vandermir had apparently done an absolutely exceptional job of managing his own reputation, both with Farholde in general and the officers of the law in particular, for most of them practically radiated admiration and respect for the old nobleman. She chatted with them for a few minutes as she filled out the relevant paperwork, presenting herself as a distant relative of the Baron come to work for him and learn how to manage an estate or business, and was swiftly informed that the half-elf was perhaps the closest thing to a 'good' man to be found among the upper reaches of the aristocracy.

She'd expected her new ally to have built up a network of contacts among the regional power players, certainly, but it seemed that he'd also taken the time to found and continuously fund an extensive orphanage in the town as well. This was generally seen as a deed good enough to excuse virtually anything else he might ever be accused of, especially given that the orphans were also provided with a proper education and a variety of sponsorship options as apprentices and other skilled workers throughout the area rather than just being kept somewhere out of the way for the duration of their miserable childhood. It seemed like rather a lot of effort to go to considering how many other ways there were to buy loyalty from the masses if you needed it, but it was only when one of the sergeants helping her with the official documentation commented fondly on his own experience as an orphan that it finally clicked.

The Baron was over a century old, and gave every indication that he was planning to stick around for decades more before finally allowing old age to claim him. He had quite literally seen generations of people born and grown up around him, to the point where he had become something of a fixture in the town's own self-image. He could therefore _afford_ to invest in schemes and operations that would not show real fruit for years or even decades after they were initially begun, because he had every reason to expect that he would be around to experience the eventual pay-off. How many men like this sergeant were there in Farholde these days; skilled and experienced adults in positions of respect and authority, with every reason to look favorably on the man who had helped them so generously in the early years of their lives and thus were always on the lookout for a way to repay their debts? How many others had made friends and family of those grown-up orphans and thereby inherited some measure of that gratitude and help? The true number would no doubt be impossible to pin down with any accuracy, but Mira would be highly surprised if it turned out to be anything less than several hundred, perhaps even a thousand or more.

It was a lesson on the importance of investment that was almost stunning in its power and simplicity, all the more so because it relied on nothing less than basic human decency and a desire to repay a favour. The Baron might as well rule Farholde in all but name by this point, given the sort of things such subtle power could likely be called upon to achieve; hell, she was making use of it to have a valuable operative released from jail with nothing more than a bit of paperwork and the power of association. Better than that, there was absolutely nothing wrong with any of it, no sinister conspiracy or shadowy cartel for crusading do-gooders to expose and dismantle, nor even any reason for someone to try. Mira made a mental note to remember this example for her own future plans, for she could always make use of new methods to build power and influence that came with relatively little risk, and while she might not have the lifespan to act on the same scale as the Baron did - though eternal life _was_ one of the more common things the stories claimed that people made infernal pacts for - she could still benefit from pursuing a similar course of action in the future.

Of course, doing good works in exchange for the reputation bonuses they brought in no way prevented her from consolidating power with _other_ , less legal means as well. Arkov was probably doing something similar, since those who felt a debt to him would not necessarily stay on the straight and narrow in later life, and contacts in the underworld were every bit as useful as those in law enforcement.

Still, not everyone was entirely pleased with her ally, such as the patrolman assigned to lead her to the cells after all the official proceedings had been completed. Curious, and ever-interested in anything that might provide her more information about those she was going to be working with, she decided to investigate and attempt to discern the basis for his dissenting opinion.

"I mean no disrespect, ma'am." The patrolman said gruffly, keeping his eyes averted from her as he led the way into the cell block. "The Baron is a good man in many ways, but I cannot help but find it distasteful that he willingly associates with scum such as this, never mind employing them. The punishment for starting that brawl was probably only ever going to be a fine, but if the criminal doesn't pay it themselves, what incentive have they to avoid a repeat offense in the future? The next time he gets drunk and starts a fight, we might not be so lucky when it comes to casualties."

"Have no fear on that count, officer." Mira said dryly, idly observing the cells and their occupants as they walked past. The prison here was fairly lightly inhabited, which either indicated a habitually law-abiding city or one where the criminals had grown practiced enough to avoid unwanted entanglements with the law. "He's not getting away entirely free - the Baron is no fan of the damage such misbehavior does to his good name, so he's taking steps to provide that 'incentive' you mentioned. By a stroke of marvelous coincidence a potential assignment in the Briar has come up recently, and I need someone big and ugly to distract the locals from eating me while I complete it. Our friend here seems like he should fit the bill rather nicely."

"You're taking him into the Briar?" The patrolman asked, looking over at her for the first time in the conversation with an expression of grim humour on his face. "Well, I stand corrected - that's as much of a punishment as any I could ever come up with, and it even serves a good cause to boot. Anyway, here we are."

They had stopped outside one particular cell, and with little ceremony the guard unhooked a ring of keys from his belt and began to unlock the door, leaving Mira to study the form of her potential new companion.

The first thing that struck her was the sheer _size_ of the man, for while she had always been accustomed to standing one of the tallest in any room, the prisoner loomed at least a couple of foot or more over even her considerable height. The rest of him was built to the same scale, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest that was larger than most actual barrels, but the proportions were slightly different to that of most men. The arms and legs were longer than she would have expected, and their joints were located just slightly out of the relative positions on a human frame, while the slight stoop to his frame did not seem so much an affliction as just the natural shape for such a being. After all, for all that an ogre might look like a human, they were most assuredly _not_ the same species.

"So, you're the one the Baron spoke of." She said after a moment, when it became clear that the prisoner wasn't going to be taking the initiative. "What's your name?"

At that, the ogre looked up, staring at her with beady black eyes that were almost lost beneath the tangled mane of dark hair which sprouted from his skull. When he opened his mouth to speak she got a glimpse of curved fangs gone yellow with age and exposure, and the sounds that he made did not resemble a voice so much as a rumbling earthquake that happened to mimic words. "Grumblejack."

"An odd name. But then, I suppose our names likely seem strange to you as well." Mira said thoughtfully, studying the broad swell of the ogre's muscles and trying to picture the destruction such a brute could likely wreck if given cause. "Baron Vandermir recommended you. Apparently you've worked for him in the past, and he's been impressed with your skills. I take it you can understand contracts and terms of employment?"

Grumblejack's lips pulled back into a smile, the light from the cell's small window making the teeth gleam softly. "Of course not. Ogres are too stupid for such things - anyone can tell you that." He said slowly, as though tasting each word before giving it voice. "I am a mindless brute who lives for blood and flesh, taught to respond to commands as you would instruct a dog. Do you pay your dog, or write a contract before you buy it from the kennel?"

"It would depend upon the dog." Mira replied, a smile of her creeping onto her lips. "I've heard of outsiders that take the form of hounds when they visit our world. It seems to me that treating someone like that as though they were a simple dog would be a fine way to get myself eaten alive."

The ogre chuckled, a deep and rumbling sound that was felt in the bones more than heard with the ears. "True. You said the Baron recommended me. What is it you seek within the Briar that you need old Grumblejack along to protect you?"

Mira raised an eyebrow, making a note not to underestimate the big man when it came to things he might overhear and take note of. She glanced sideways at the prison guard, who seemed to be doing an admirable job of seeing and hearing nothing, and decided to play it safe regardless. "An old ruin. Hopefully abandoned, but more likely infested with all manner of horrible monsters. I trust in my own skills, but it's always good to have someone reliable fighting at your side. Call it insurance. I pay in gold, normally, but if you have other preferences I'm sure we can work something out."

"Gold is fine." Grumblejack said, pushing himself to his feet and approaching the cell door. "I'm guessing you paid my fine? That gets you a week of free service. We'll take rates for anything else once I've had a look at how big and nasty these monsters are."

"A fair deal." Mira replied, turning towards the guard. "My new associate had gear when you arrested him, yes? I'd like to reclaim it."

-/-

It was amazing just how differently people looked at you when you had a ogre bodyguard shadowing you through the streets of the city. Grumblejack didn't even have to do anything in particular, as just the sight of him plodding along steadily in her shadow was enough to send everyone else on the street scrambling out of the way. Most of them moved with enough grace and composure to make it look as though they had other, perfectly legitimate reasons for moving to the side of the street, but they cleared the way all the same, as though frightened that moving within arm's reach of the monster would compel him to snatch them up and bite their heads off.

Still, there was distinctly less screaming and fleeing for safer ground than Mira might have normally expected, which seemed to indicate that the ogre was a reasonably common sight in the town. More than that, he was apparently trustworthy enough to be previously employed by a major nobleman without utterly ruining said man's reputation, even if he _did_ occasionally earn a black mark or two with an unsightly brawl. All of which pointed to Grumblejack as being a rather more intelligent and civilized individual than any other ogre Mira had ever met or even heard about. There were several tribes of the beasts in the north, and every few years some of them would try to mount some kind of raid against the southern lands, but unlike her new companion all of those ogres were invariably some kind of idiotic and hideous monster scarcely able to string a few words together.

Still, what distinguished her new ally from her old enemies was a topic that she would have to consider some other day. For now, she would simply be glad to have him on her side, especially if he could wield the gigantic two-handed sword strapped to his back with any kind of reasonable skill. The weapon looked heavy enough to fell a tree in a single swing, never mind what it would do to the vulnerable flesh of anyone so foolish as to get in its way, and while such a fighting style allowed relatively little room for a careful defense there was little chance of any smaller blade getting through the ogre's reinforced armour or the thick hide underneath.

Timeon had taken his leave already, moving off into the town to find the necessary supplies for a potentially prolonged visit to the Horn, and in the mean-time Mira and Grumblejack had made their way down to the docks to await the arrival of their other allies. Thorn had promised her aid from the Seventh Knot after all, and while she couldn't really claim that spending a great deal of time around Elise was a particularly attractive thought, there was no denying that the support of a witch was a rather valuable commodity. The rest of the knot were capable agents as well, and if she was being completely honest, she couldn't deny that the thought of seeing Dostan again was rather pleasing on a more _personal_ level.

They had scarcely been waiting twenty minutes, taking a seat by the edge of one of the piers and doing their best to stay out of the way of the bustling dock workers, when the barge she had been told to look for rounded the bend in the river and began its approach. Schooling her face into a professional expression, Mira rose to her feet and went to meet it.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Elise was the first of the Seventh to disembark from the barge as it pulled into the dock, her fur-lined cloak billowing dramatically in the breeze as she strode down the gangplank, the rest of her team trailing along behind. Titus and Tallus were there at her shoulders, their only differences being the weapons they wore at their belts, while behind them all came the towering form of Dostan, already surveying the area with the practiced motions of a professional bodyguard.

"Elise, good to see you again." Mira said as they drew within speaking distance, adding a degree of warmth to her tone even though she knew it would not be believed. "I trust the past few months have treated you well?"

"Well enough, dear Mirabelle, though apparently not so well as you." Elise replied, her tone friendly but her expression carefully controlled. The witch's eyes drifting up to the towering form of Grumblejack, and she raised one carefully sculpted eyebrow. "You seem to have acquired a new pet."

"Not a pet." Grumblejack said with a smile that exposed rather too many teeth, an expression that had the twins resting hands upon their weapons out of sheer reflex. "Grumblejack is a fearsome monster. Try not to forget it, yes?"

Elise's lips thinned slightly at the not-so-subtle threat, before brushing it off as being beneath her concern. "It seems we will be working together on this one, Mirabelle. A delightful prospect, I'm sure. Still, you've been here a day or so already - I trust you've made some progress?"

"Naturally. But we're blocking the pier right now, so let's walk and talk." Mira said, gesturing to the side, knowing that the witch would catch the inferred motivation easily enough. They hadn't been here long to acquire any kind of dedicated enemies, but it would still be better to avoid the risk of curious eavesdroppers by holding their conversation while in motion. Elise inclined her head in agreement and the two groups fell in side by side, making their way back towards Farholde.

"I have already located the Horn, or at least where all the evidence indicates it should be." Mira resumed speaking once they were out of earshot of any lingering observers. "Timeon is securing supplies for the journey now, as well as the equipment we will need to clear the place out and establish a longer term presence. I have no idea how long it will take to accomplish our overall objective, but it seems best to plan on weeks at the least, more likely several months. That's going to eat up all of my time and attention, so I will be relying on the Seventh to handle things in Farholde."

It was a small concession, a reminder that the Farholde side of the work would remain vitally important in seeing this task through, but one she doubted would truly assuage Elise's wounded ego. The witch presented a calm mask to the world, but based on the personality that she'd displayed back at the manor she was doubtless more than a little angry at not being given the lead on this assignment. Hopefully her professionalism and the contracts they had signed would prevent that anger from leading her into anything foolish, but if Mira could defuse the risk ahead of time with a few words she had little reason to do otherwise.

"As expected." Elise commented, her gaze lingering on the hills and valleys of Farholde as she sized the place up. "Over the next few weeks I will establish a network of spies and contacts all across the town, focusing on the inn's, taverns and any other place that adventurers and explorers might gather. Doubtless your work will start drawing attention before too long - those groups which I can dissuade or dispatch I will do, and for the others I will send a messenger with a full report."

"A good plan." Mira replied, forced to admit that it really was. There was no effective way for four people to completely lock down a town of several thousand, so focusing on information gathering and early warning was likely the best option available. "Though I confess some minor worry - if everyone who expresses an interest in the Horn meets a sudden and unexpected demise, that might begin to draw attention of its own. And if those in turn are eliminated, well..."

"An unavoidable necessity, I'm afraid." Elise said, though her tone did not suggest that she found the idea of a constantly escalating series of murders particularly distasteful. "Keeping this whole affair discreet would be the ideal outcome, and certainly I will attempt to make any deaths look like unfortunate accidents for as long as possible, but eventually something is going to go wrong. At that point... I think a daemon-worshipping serial killer obsessed with preventing anyone from defiling his sacred temple should be a decent backup cover story."

"Of course." Mira said slowly, trying to fight down the sudden surge of bitter nausea that arose in her gut at the thought. It seemed somewhat inevitable that a lot of people were going to wind up dead as a result of their presence here, people who would normally have every reason to believe themselves safe from the horrors of the war slowly enveloping the eastern regions of the nation. A great many others would lose friends and relatives, and live their days in fear of the mad killer lurking amongst them, and yet... she truly could not see a better way to accomplish their mission. She knew better than to assume that her foes would let her work in the Horn proceed unopposed, and those who would seek to stop her would have to die before they could disrupt the mission. Did it really matter if they died in their beds and in dark alleyways, rather than at the Horn with swords in hand? She thought that it might, but for the life of her she could not properly articulate _why_.

"Well, I think that's the broad strokes covered, though they do say no plan survives contact with the enemy." Elise said lightly, giving no hint as to whether she had managed to detect the sudden stir of doubt in Mira's heart. "Still, until the inevitable disaster unfolds we might as well get to work. You might as well take Dostan as well - the big lummox has been dying for a reunion, even if he doesn't think I noticed. We can spare the time if it means he'll stop moping around the place."

The witch's voice was a touch more chill towards the end of that, though for his part Dostan seemed entirely unaffected. The barbarian simply rolled his eyes, then raised one eyebrow at Mira in silent question. The hellknight considered it for a moment, weighing up her own desires against the needs of the mission, then concluded that they weren't going to be setting off for the Horn until tomorrow morning at the latest. She had the time to spare, and more than enough motivation. So without another word, she wrapped one hand around the big man's waist, slightly surprised to realize that she really had missed his company over the past few weeks, and together they strode off into the streets of Farholde.

She pretended not to see the faint smirk on Elise's lips as they left.


	20. Act Five - Caer Byr

Way of the Wicked Chapter Nineteen

"So. You understand she expects me to spy on you, yes?"

Outside the inn, the sun was slowly dipping towards the horizon, signaling the end of the day for all the bustling workers who thronged Farholde's narrow streets. Shopkeepers were closing up their properties, torch-lighters were beginning their rounds, and taverns all across the city were bracing themselves for the swell of fresh custom the evening would bring. Mira and Dostan had spent most of the day lost in idle wandering and gossip, sharing stories and catching up over drinks and a meal, before retreating to their room at the inn to enjoy the more physical aspects of their nascent relationship. Now naked but for the tangle of sheets that wrapped around them both, Mira rested her head on Dostan's broad chest and considered his words at length.

"Mm. The thought had occurred." She said slowly, idly running one hand across the broad sweep of her lover's torso, reacquainting herself with the endless tapestry of small scars that told his story in a way that words never could. "I am not entirely unfamiliar with the idea of bedroom politics, though I never quite saw the appeal. Mixing business with pleasure has an unfortunate habit of poisoning them both to no good end. I suppose I am not surprised that Elise feels differently. Do you know what she hopes to accomplish?"

Dostan shrugged lightly, the faint movement made abundantly obvious by the close nature of their embrace. "I do not. My mind is not made for such things. If I were to guess, I might say she sees our... relationship as one more means to manipulate a rival. A form of control, one step removed."

Mira stilled her hand as she considered his words. One word in particular - 'relationship', and the hesitation before it. It was a very neutral word to use when describing a topic so easily fraught with emotional significance, an acknowledgement of something that did not go so far as to define it. Was Dostan truly so removed as to have no stronger term for what lay between them, or was he simply unsure of how to describe it? It would not surprise her to learn that the latter was the case, for in truth she herself had little better idea. She had initially courted Dostan... no, such terms put too delicate a spin on the topic, hiding truth behind pretty words for no good reason, and she was not so far gone as to use such language within the confines of her own mind. She had seduced and bedded Dostan in the beginning for no greater end than physical pleasure, motivated by frustration and lust with little thought for the longer term, and she suspected he had cooperated for much the same reasons. But somewhere along the line it had become something more, and that troubled her on a level she wasn't entirely sure how to quantify.

It was not love, of that she was sure, at least not the kind the bards spoke of in such magnificent terms. Such things were for the courts and the history books, and all too often for the gravestones, epic romances that bound two lovers together in chains stronger than the finest steel, and from their lives wove a story that would echo down through the ages. The current King was a victim of just such an affair, and she chose her words wisely, for the love he had apparently found on some distant campaign had scarred him deeper than any wound, changed him beyond all recognition according to those who had known him before. He had returned to the capital with an infant girl in his arms, and before the astonished court had proclaimed her his daughter, the princess Belinda. Of the mother he would not speak, save to name her as Aria and insist that she be recorded in the official lineages as his queen, taken too soon by complications in childbirth. It had been one of the greatest scandals in living memory, the identity of the mother one of the realm's most desired secrets, after shortly thereafter one of the most popular stories to tell around the campfire, another verse in the legend that was Markaddian.

And yet... was that truly the only kind of bond worthy of being called love? She did not think so, for the world would be an unrecognizable place if such were the standard meaning of the term, and she knew of many happy couples that could rightly be described as loving one another. Such bonds were subtle and less than glamorous, and thus rarely featured in stories and tales, but they were true none the less. Was that what she shared, or was coming to share with Dostan? How did one even judge such a thing, in the absence of the dramatic revelations that occurred at appropriate moments in the story?

Well, certainly she enjoyed his company. If the bonds between them were purely physical she would presumably have felt no desire to linger in his company outside the throes of lust, but with their recent reunion she was forced to admit that she appreciated the simple opportunity to spend time with him regardless of how they occupied themselves. He had a gift for storytelling and a voice she could cheerfully listen to for hours, and while his language was hardly as polished as that of a professional bard there was no denying the skill with which he spun tales over drinks that enthralled and fired the imagination. More than that, he was a good listener, always interested in trading tales of his homeland in exchange for stories native to Talingarde that he had never had a chance to hear before. His perspective was that of a foreigner, and thus certain subtleties and contexts would always slip by without his notice, but in turn he could look at the history of her homeland with eyes unclouded by bias or native assumption. It made for many interesting conversations, and even if such activities had served merely as prelude to the bedroom in the past she did not think she would mind if they came to occupy the night entire.

So, his company was enjoyable; that was certainly a point in his favour. More than that, she missed him in his absence. No pining maiden was she, waiting at the window for news of her beloved's safe return from whatever heroic adventure occupied him, but neither was she entirely immune to the sting of loss and solitude when their duty took them apart. She had thought it would not matter, when they parted for an unknown time after their training in the manor was complete, but the rush of emotion that had surged through her heart and soul when they were reunited was enough to convince her of the folly of such belief. Yet even friends would miss their old companions when separated for a time, so that alone did not point to the existence of anything more.

It was, she decided, a matter to consider in more depth at a later date. Too much of her life had been spent on base pursuits and loyal service for her grasp of such delicate social matters to be up to the task. Previously she might have sought out a trusted relative to confide in and seek advice, but for the present that was far from a practical option. She would have to think upon it at length and then decide - for now, there were more pressing concerns.

"I see. Or rather, I understand the intent but not the thoughts behind it." Mira said dryly, trusting that her momentary pause could be attributed to any number of thoughts and not ones that might make her partner uncomfortable. "I hardly take orders from you, and you do not strike me as one to successfully echo her thoughts as though they were your own to give them further weight. Does she think I scream out future plans and personal secrets in the throes of passion, that you might remember and report back at a later date?"

This time Dostan chuckled, a low rumbling sound she could feel echoed in his chest. "I have heard you cry many things, but nothing such as that." He said with a smile. "Though of course, it is possible you have let slip important secrets in the past and I simply have not noticed. Such opportunities do, by their nature, tend to arise when I am rather... distracted."

By way of demonstration, he removed one broad hand from its resting place by his side and placed it against her exposed flank, gently caressing the smooth curve of her hip and moving up along her bare back. Mira made a small noise of quiet appreciation, one that ended with the motion of Dostan's hand a moment later.

"This is a new scar." He said quietly, all humour drained from his voice as he gently ran fingers across the knot of scar tissue on her back. "One recently healed, and too close to the heart for a minor wound."

Sighing gently, Mira removed her head from its comfortable position against Dostan's chest and shifted position so she could meet his gaze. His expression was drawn and serious, and there was a small hint of anger around his eyes.

"You knew when first we met that I was no delicate flower, to be prominently displayed and never risked." She said calmly, wanting to defuse his concern but unwilling to yield on who and what she was. "I am a soldier, a warrior. Warriors get hurt, sometimes badly. It was a bad wound, yes, but one I survived and have since recovered from."

"That I accept such harm as being possible, even likely, does not mean I must like it." Dostan said firmly. "The thought of you being injured, even killed, so far away as to mean I might never know of it... it does not please me."

Mira felt her breath catch momentarily at that admission, then chided herself silently for reacting in such a childish fashion. They were friends, allies and lovers, so it would have been more of a surprise to find that Dostan entirely uncaring at the news of her injury. "I do not expect you to be pleased, just accepting." She said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Our time together is not eternal - one day it will end, by choice or by violence. Until that day, is it not better to focus on simply enjoying what we have, rather than wasting time in dread of what might be?"

Dostan was silent for a time, meeting her gaze with silent thoughtfulness, though what if anything he saw in her eyes she could not tell. Eventually he sighed. "I suppose you are correct. I might not like it, but I cannot deny the wisdom in your words. Though it does remind me - I have brought you a gift."

Saying that, he rolled over and slid out of the bed, padding softly across the room to the rough pile they had made of their belongings. Mira watched him go with lazy appreciation, taking the chance to shamelessly admire her lover's sculpted form as he knelt by the bags and rooted through them in search of his gift. Summer would be upon them soon, and she idly entertained the idea of persuading Dostan to go without his shirt when the sweltering heat of the longer days finally arrived. Then again, that might be too distracting, especially if she hoped to get anything of value done.

"Here we are." Dostan said, rising back to his feet and turning to face her. In one hand he held what was unmistakably a necklace of some kind, the small pendant attached to the chain swaying slightly with his movements. "Come on, I want to see what you look like wearing it. The smith I purchased it from did fine work, but I was working from memory when I designed something suitable."

Smiling, Mira rose from the bed to join him, leaving the sheets behind. Dostan took her by the arm as she approached, and with firm but gentle movements led her over to the large mirror hanging against one wall. Then, standing behind her so as not to impede the view, he carefully moved her hair out of the way and pulled the jewelry into position around her neck. This close to her own reflection, Mira could see that while the chain itself appeared to be silver, the small pendant hanging from it looked to be a simple ring of iron coiled into an intricate knot. It stood out against the pale skin of her neck, a bold if somewhat unconventional contrast that drew the eye in way that other designs might not.

"Silver and iron? An unusual choice." She said, her tone rich with amusement and perhaps a little confusion. "Most would opt for gold and jewels in preference to such base materials."

"Those would not suit you." Dostan said quietly, his breath warm against her neck. "Gold is soft and weak, good to look at and not much more, while pretty rocks will shatter under a blow and have no practical use outside of spells. Iron is hard and unyielding, a warrior's metal, and one that can be twisted into a beautiful form without losing its basic value."

"Mm. That was almost poetic." Mira said, tilting her head to one side and pressing herself back against her lover. One of his arms slipped around her waist and she moved a free hand down to meet it, holding him close. "And what of silver? That is hardly associated with warriors, at least not here."

"Do your people not have the wolf-kin? Or blood-drinkers?" Dostan asked in a teasing tone, leaning in to press a soft kiss against her exposed neck. "Silver suits you better than any other metal, for it is both beautiful and strong. It does not tarnish with time or exposure, works on jewelry and in weapons, and slays even the foulest monsters with ease. I could not think of a finer gift to match what I see in you."

"Oh, _very_ good." Mira said with a broad smile, twisting in his grasp to meet his lips with her own. The kiss was deep and passionate enough to drive out most other thoughts, but in the back of her mind she could not help but think back to her earlier concerns. Maybe this was love, and maybe it wasn't, but she couldn't really bring herself to care. She had something here, something worth pursuing, and for now that was all that mattered. Anything else was a worry for another day.

-/-

They slipped out of Farholde as the sun rose the following morning, their bills with the inn settled and their supplies strapped to a number of rented mules. Without any certain knowledge of how long it would be before they could effectively resupply, Mira had issued Timeon with enough funds to secure rations and supplies to last them several weeks. Judging the needs of an ogre had proven somewhat difficult, but in the end the young man had eventually shrugged and proceeded under the assumption that he was buying for a party of six rather than three.

The guards at the gate, evidently tired and distracted from a long and boring shift, saw their hardy traveling gear and let them depart with little trouble, doubtless assuming their intended destination to be one of any number of minor farming villages to the south and east. From there it was a simple matter of waiting until they had passed out of easy visual range of the town before turning sharply to the west and heading for the ominous shadowed bulk of the tree line. The transition from rolling flood-plain to verdant woodland was almost shockingly abrupt, and they had barely taken a dozen paces before the dense foliage obscured all sight of the open land behind them. Leading the way and thus unable to see the rest of her little group without turning around, Mira could not help but be put in thought of some great green monster, swallowing them all alive even as they walked willingly into its jaws.

Not being a complete fool, Mira had naturally done her research on the Caer Byr before departing, aiming to discover what type of landscape it was she would have to navigate in order to find the Horn, but it became rapidly apparent that the picture she'd built in her mind was woefully inadequate. She had come expecting a temperate rainforest, where rainstorms sweeping in off the western sea ran into the thick chains of mountains that marked the effective western border of Talingarde and saturated the coastline between them with moisture, but it was only now that she was beginning to understand what that actually meant. The humidity under the nigh-solid canopy was almost absurdly heavy, to the point where the natural dips and valleys in the land played host to nigh-permanent clouds of mist, and inside of ten minutes they were all sweating freely and wiping condensation from their gear. Grumblejack was evidently suffering the worst, his immense frame covered in so much moisture he almost seemed to glisten in the morning light, but the ogre had enough pride to simply soldier on without complaint.

With so much moisture to feed upon, and the legendary danger of prowling monsters to fend off the axes of greedy humans, the plants of the Caer Byr had thrived undisturbed for centuries on end. Now the trees stood taller than the mightiest of buildings, their highest branches a hundred feet or more from the ground and their trunks grown thick enough that a dozen men might link arms and be unable to fully enclose them. With size had come variety, dozens of different species living and growing side by side until the forest bloomed with a hundred different hues. Brilliant azure flowers sprouted from the flanks of giant trees above whole beds of yellow lichen, while scarce feet away a hundred tiny vines of bloody scarlet wound their way around the chalky-white trunk of another tree and slowly strangled it to death in a parasitic embrace that might have taken years to fully play out, all set against an endless backdrop of vibrant green. There was the dark shadow-green of the firs, the sickly pale green of nascent moss, the rich emerald green of the mightiest oaks and a hundred more shades beyond, all stitched together in an endless blanket of foliage that stretched across ten thousand square miles of untamed wilderness.

Distantly, Mira thought she remembered hearing that the Iraen who inhabited this land counted a hundred words or more for 'green' among their collection of native tongues. Looking around her now she could well believe it, for an environment like this was rich and varied enough to demand more than a small handful of words to describe its magnificent splendor and variety.

Nor was it the eyes alone that were beset by the fierce beauty and overwhelming variety of their surroundings, for the rains of the coast were driven inland by fierce ocean winds, and those did not stop at the boundary between land and sea. The trunks of the mighty trees were far too dense and deeply rooted to yield to even the strongest wind, but their upper branches swayed freely, a million individual leaves tossed back and forth by the gentle touch of the breeze until their rasping chorus filled the air with strange and primal music. It rose and fell in great waves that reminded one of the ocean, accompanied by a low and creaking counterpoint as the branches themselves moved back and forth far above their heads.

Against that background came the cries of the Briar's living inhabitants, for the plants were far from the only things to find this environment well suited to their growth. Bird calls from a hundred different throats filled the air, from the warbling cries of the small yellow darts that dashed between the trees to the creaking roars of the massive predators haunting the upper canopy. At one point Mira spotted a vast shadow larger than an ogre detach itself from the upper reaches of one tree and swoop silently across to another, but fortunately whatever it was did not seem inclined to try its luck against potential prey nearer to the ground. Not that aerial predators were their only concern, of course, for every now and then the distant howling of wolves or the gargling cries of something much worse would echo between the endless trees, but though each cry sent minds afire with dread and muscles twitching with nervous energy, none of their owners saw fit to approach any closer.

Mira prided herself on her resourcefulness and ability to handle damn near any problem or situation thrown her way, but that pride was not nearly enough to make her believe she could have navigated a place like this with any hope of success, much less searched it for an elusive prize that had remained concealed for decades. Whatever else Aiden Kael might have been, there was no denying he was a supremely gifted scout and explorer, for the map he had left behind in his room at the inn charted the northern reaches of the Caer Byr in meticulous detail. Without his guidance, she was prepared to believe that they might have stumbled around beneath the verdant canopy for days or weeks before finding what they were looking for, if indeed they were successful at all. With the lines of sight so limited in many ways, Kael had drawn his map to focus on the more easily detectable signs, such as the contours of the land and the distances between different points, and had even gone so far as to sketch out a recommended route to their destination from Farholde that avoided the worst of the wilderness terrain.

Here and there small markers had been added to the map, minor annotations indicating useful resources or the hunting grounds of particularly unpleasant natives, all of which the recommended route avoided with exceptional care as it wound its way through the forest. For a moment Mira was tempted to disregard the suggestion and take a more direct route, trading increased danger for a reduced time spent in this stifling humidity, but after a moment's thought she quashed the impulse ruthlessly. There were many things she was good at, but wilderness survival was not one of them, and placing her own ill-formed desires above the recommendations of an expert would be an exceptionally foolish course of action. It would serve her right to try and cut corners here and get eaten by a carnivorous flower for her trouble.

All in all, it took them at least an hour of wandering through the Briar before their trail finally lead them up the slopes of what seemed to be a small mountain, a minor foothill compared to the sky-scraping giants further to the east but a significant climb all the same. All three of them were gasping for breath by the time they finally reached the upper regions of the slope, and their poor pack mules were evidently suffering almost as badly, but the view from above the tree line was more than enough to make up for it.

The Caer Byr sprawled out before them for miles in every direction, a living blanket of brown and green swathed in drifting clouds of silver mist. That would have been an impressive enough sight on its own, but what really drew the eye were the mountains. There were dozens of them spread all across the northern expanse of the Briar, great towers of jagged stone that erupted from the earth like the fangs of some great primordial beast. There were no foothills or smoothly rising slopes, just the abrupt transition of a sudden cliff face, to the point where it seemed almost absurd that natural forces alone had conspired in their creation. It was barely an hour after dawn, and the sun still hung low in the sky, gifting each jagged spire with a long shadow that threw a mile of forest into darkness.

"Quite a view." Timeon noted softly, leaning against a nearby rock to catch his breath while he stared out at the sprawling vista before them. "It must have taken Kael weeks to search all of these, especially since he was going to the trouble of making accurate maps as well."

"Surprised he didn't get eaten." Grumblejack said in his rumbling voice, planting broad hands against his hips as he surveyed the clusters of stone spires with a professional eye. "Place like that would make a good lair. No telling what you might find lurking there."

"Who's to say he didn't?" Mira said idly, holding up the map and comparing it to the topography in front of her. "There had to be a reason he went silent. Then again, we know he found the Horn, so it probably wasn't a wandering monster that did him in. Maybe some of the defenses were still intact?"

"After eighty years?" Timeon said with a frown. "I doubt it, especially since the Victor probably wrecked the place pretty thoroughly during his visit. If I had to guess, I'd say Kael probably ran into something that the Victor left behind to make sure no one tried precisely what we want to try. I only know him through the history books, but the first Darian hardly seems to have been the sort to rely on anonymity alone to protect this place."

"A guardian, then?" Mira asked, considering the idea. "It makes sense. Even so, what kind of sentinel could you trust to stand watch over a half-ruined temple in the middle of the wilderness for decades on end?"

Half a second later she had her answer, as the tree next to her stood up and punched her in the face.


	21. Act Six - Meet the locals

**Act Six - Taking the Horn**

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty

As it turned out, getting punched by a fully grown tree was remarkably painful. It was a discovery that Mira could have quite cheerfully gone her entire life without ever making, and the fact that her path had led her into the sort of situations where such a lesson could be learned struck her as faintly ridiculous. As did the fact that a tree was even capable of punching someone in the first place, come to think of it. It was a plant, for crying out loud - it didn't even have muscles, let alone the particular arrangement of bones and ligaments necessary to form a fist and punch someone. True, magic could break a lot of otherwise universal laws when it wanted to, and this would hardly be the first monster she'd encountered that relied on arcane energies to sustain its existence, but it would still be nice if there was a way to reliably tell what something could and could not do just by looking at it.

Still, at least she'd had the foresight to wear her armour, even if she hadn't particularly enjoyed it very much. The baroquely decorated metal plates were a good deal lighter and more flexible than most protection she'd worn in her life, but they were far from weightless, and she suspected that whoever or whatever had forged it didn't consider such things as 'comfort in humid conditions' to be a particular priority. She'd considered just leaving it behind entirely and going with a light suit of studded leather or the like, but in the end the reputation of the Caer Byr had persuaded her otherwise. Her luck simply wasn't good enough for her to reliably expect a trip through the twisted depths of a monster-infested forest to pass without incident, so she'd invested in the best protection available as insurance against the inevitable predatory violence. True, getting ambushed by the trees of all things hadn't exactly been a possible outcome she'd given much thought to, but she'd learned long ago that it was never the expected threats which got you. Well, almost never. The point was, right now she was flying through the air with a ringing head and one mother of a bruise likely forming on her chest, and that was vastly preferable to the likely-horrific injuries she would have sustained without the armour to protect her.

Sky and ground changed places twice in front of her eyes before her impromptu flight ended in a collision with the latter, after which came a great deal of supremely undignified rolling across the forest floor. Once enough momentum had abated that she was able to bring herself to a halt by digging hands and feet into the ground and holding on, Mira took a moment to spit the disgusting concoction of mud and leaves out of her mouth before looking up to get a proper grasp on the situation.

The pack horses had, perhaps unsurprisingly, panicked at the prospect of being devoured by semi-sentient foliage and promptly done their best to flee for their lives. Timeon had fortunately predicted that something like this would happen, and had therefore rigged all of the packs strapped to the beasts to come free with little more than a tug on a central strap, making sure to carefully wrap anything volatile in several layers of cloth and wool to soften the impact. The squire was currently kneeling by said packs, rooting through them in a desperate search for something which might prove marginally more effective than a dagger at bringing down a gigantic piece of hostile plant life. Mira wished him the best of luck, though she was pretty sure he hadn't packed anything that was an ideal counter to their present situation - that would have been far too easy. Even so, when in doubt, there were remarkably few things that couldn't be fought with fire in some fashion, and of those the majority were on their side in a cosmological sense, so there was probably something to be said for just finding the right mix of volatile chemicals and throwing them at their problem until it went away.

Grumblejack, meanwhile, had apparently opted to make a decent start on a career as an amateur lumberjack. She had tried to imagine the carnage that weapon would be able to wreak when first she had seen him with it, but her initial ideas had all been based around humanoid or at least vaguely mammalian opponents, and had therefore involved rather more blood and gore than the tableau set before her now. Still, sap and splinters made for a decent enough replacement, and Grumblejack was certainly producing enough of both as he hacked at his opponent over and over again with savage enthusiasm. The tree was fighting back of course, but whatever esoteric magic that animated it was evidently unable to imbue a great deal of martial talent, for the blows it launched with branch and root were clumsy and poorly timed at best, the actions of an automated process rather than a thinking mind.

Dragging her blood-red sword free of its scabbard, Mira called upon the power that Asmodeus had blessed her with. She'd had plenty of time to practice her abilities on the barge ride to Farholde, and whether her improved prowess was a result of that practice mixed with recent experience or whether it was a divine gift from the Pit itself, the result was the same. She hadn't yet worked out how to translate the potential at the back of her mind into a proper spell as of yet, but channeling infernal energy through her own body was a trick she was more than capable of. True masters of the blade had always spoken of their weapons as being an extension of their own bodies, and with that mental connection in place it was a simple thing to drag two fingers along the length of her sword and channel the divine energy towards the desired end. Flames burst into life in the wake of her touch, tongues of searing hellfire wrapping themselves around the length of her sword and continuing to burn without care for fuel or any other petty necessities of mundane flame. It was the same principle that had driven Timeon to search through the bags before engaging their strange and mighty foe - when it doubt, set fire to it.

Several vines, wound together in a complex pattern and moving across the ground with serpentine ease, coiled themselves around her left shin and pulled tight with shocking force. Ground and sky inverted themselves for the second time in as many moments, and Mira let out the vilest curse she could imagine as the improvised lasso spun her upside down and hauled her up into the air. She could only imagine that whoever was responsible had looped the vines over a convenient branch in a passable imitation of a hunter's trap, but at that moment she was far too busy trying to fight down the sudden surge of nausea the violent motion induced to give much thought to the specific mechanics of the whole thing. The world swung wildly back and forth as she soared through the air like an ungainly pendulum, and she had to remind herself quite sternly that vomiting all over the place would almost certainly not help matters.

"The Horn of Abbadon must remain forgotten." A stentorian voice proclaimed, and despite her wild swinging Mira managed to pin it's source down to one of three large trees with vaguely humanoid faces on their trunks standing nearby. Or perhaps there was only one such tree - it wasn't as though she was in a situation that was particularly conducive to making an accurate count at this moment. "I gave my solemn oath that I would see it done, and I will not allow you to prove my words or conviction false."

"Thank you." Mira all but choked out, clenching her teeth together to avoid biting her own tongue off. "I was wondering which of these trees was you."

With those words on her lips she reached for her feet, abdominal muscles screaming in protest at the effort of fighting against gravity in such a fashion, and swept her burning sword across in a broad arc. The enchanted blade came dangerously close to striking her own foot, but she had judged the risk well worth taking, and was rewarded by the sight of the offending vines being severed like so much string under the impact. For a moment she was still traveling upwards, the momentum of the retracting vines sufficient to keep her in motion even after being forcibly separated from her leg, and her dark hair spun out around her like a halo as she twisted back around to face towards the ground. Then she was falling once more, clutching her sword in a two-handed grip and howling in exhilaration and fear alike.

Steel met wood with a dull thudding noise and was swiftly proven the victor, the force imparted by her falling body more than enough to cleave through the thick bark surrounding the tree's outstretched branches and cut deeply into the living wood beneath. She vaguely recalled that the proper term for an animate tree such as this was 'treant', but whether that was what the guardian called itself or whether it was just a label slapped upon it by ignorant peasants was something she could not recall. Either way it could most certainly feel pain, flinching back from her strike and emitting a low moaning noise that she could feel in her bones, and that was more than enough information to satisfy her curiousity for the moment. The strike did not harm it alone, however, and she very nearly lost her grip on her sword and the shock of striking a hardened target with such force shivered along the length of the blade and made her hands ache inside their protective gauntlets. Still, such pain was as nothing compared to the agonies she had endured at Thorn's hands during her training, nor was the strain in her legs when she hit the ground again a moment later.

Roaring, the Treant formed several of its branches into a mighty fist and brought it crashing down, forcing Mira to throw herself into a sideways roll lest she be crushed into paste by the impact. Given the choice between rolling away from her for and towards it, she considered the sheer advantage the tree would gain from its increased reach and opted to stay close. The plant creature was supporting itself on a network of thick roots rather than any kind of legs, but they still held it high enough above the ground that she could pass underneath without too much difficulty. Rising to her feet on the far side, she spared a moment to glance over at her two companions.

"Grumblejack, leave it! That one's just a puppet - kill _this_ one."

The Ogre turned at her words, but she didn't have time to see whether he would obey them, for already the Treant was turning to engage her once again. Her sword flickered out once more, carving a deep wound into her target's flanks that left the bark blackened and scorched, and she stepped lightly around to stay in her enemy's blind spot as it thrashed in pain. This was how they had fought the larger monsters from the north when she had commanded a garrison on the wall - exploit the limitations their own size forced upon them, stay close so as to negate the advantage of improved reach, and use their own bulk as a shield. It didn't always work, of course - she had particular memories of one particular troll that turned out to literally have a second pair of eyes growing between its shoulder blades and the double-jointed limbs to take advantage of them - but there was never any one fool-proof strategy that could be applied to all possible encounters anyway. Most of the time it worked, and on those rare occasions where it didn't they simply had to be fast enough to identify another strategy that would before the monster in question murdered them all.

Unfortunately, she'd never been called upon to fight a living tree before, and she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that they possessed all the qualities of a truly aggravating foe. For example, their limbs were animated by magic and will rather than anything so mundane as joints and ligaments, and therefore could bend and reach in ways that no animal could. It was a lesson she learned the hard way, as one of the Treant's massive 'arms' suddenly twisted around and drove itself into her gut with all the force of a charging bull. The metal plate of her infernal armour robbed the blow of much of its strength, but what remained was still more than enough to send her skidding backwards across the ground. A secondary pain blossomed in her mouth as the impact caused her to bite her own lip, and she spat to clear the blood from her mouth.

It was at that point that Grumblejack arrived, holding his great sword extended out in front of him in a two-handed grip that reminded her obscurely of a jousting knight. The ogre's broad bulk did not seem as though it should be capable of any significant speed, but that impression was dangerously deceptive, as demonstrated by the way he covered the ground between him and his new target before the latter had even really registered the threat. All the mass and speed of a charming ogre was placed behind the razor-sharp tip of that sword, and it sunk deep into the Treant's central trunk with a dull thumping noise, burying at least a few feet of sharpened steel in the guardian's core.

The tree cried out in pain, a strange sound that was more akin to the howl of the wind than any animal scream, before wrenching itself around in an effort to disarm or otherwise dislodge the ogre. Grumblejack held on tightly to the hilt of the embedded sword, muscles bulging as he strained to oppose the immense force applied by something even larger than he was, booted feet leaving divots in the ground as he was dragged through a partial turn. Grimly determined to win the confrontation, the ogre began sawing the sword back and forth, widening the wound and causing a small river of sap to flow out and splatter across the ground. Seizing the advantage presented by the tree's distraction Mira waded back in, swinging her sword in short, vicious arcs that carved charred divots in the bark with every strike. There was no skill or finesse here, for the Treant was too large a target for her to miss altogether - instead, the focus was shifted towards power and speed, on delivering blows with enough force behind them to actually inflict a serious wound through the natural armour and sheer inhuman resilience of the ancient guardian.

"You think this is enough? You think I will fall so easily?" The tree roared, though it's anger was tainted with the unmistakeable sound of fear. "I am Jurak!"

With that the Treant blurred into motion, branch-like limbs moving with a far greater speed than any they had previously displayed. The sudden burst of agility caught Mira by surprise, and before she could get clear a great cluster of slender branches caught her around the waist and curled in to hold her still in something vaguely resembling a fist. Grumblejack, his bulk merely rendering him a larger target in this instance, was likewise ensnared and for a moment Mira dared to hope that their enemy would be content with merely immobilizing them, perhaps hoping to effect a surrender. Sadly that was not to be, and with a creak of shifting wood they were both hauled into the air. Mira took a moment to look down at the ground, now several meters below.

"Oh dear." She said, half to herself. It seemed fairly obvious that what came next was probably going to hurt a great deal.

Her grim prediction was proven correct a moment later as Jurak, evidently driven to a furious rage by the injuries he had already sustained, tightened its grip and swung its two assailants down into the earth with as much force as its broad frame could muster.

Mira didn't feel the impact. One moment she was in the air hurtling towards the ground at a rather unsettling velocity, the next she was several inches below the surface and trying desperately to draw breath into a set of lungs that had apparently been rendered considerably more flat than they were half a second ago. Just about every inch of her body was suffused with a dull, aching throb, and the sounds of the forest had been almost entirely drowned out by a distant ringing sound. She wondered, in that half-detached frame of mind that always seemed to come upon her in the wake of serious injury, whether any of her bones were broken. The armour might have dispersed the force of the impact enough to protect her from such things, but then again it might not, and she was pretty sure that it was a fairly important question to have an answer for before too long. Damned if she could quite recall why, though.

It was at that point that the tree stepped on her.

When the crushing pressure abated a moment later, the ringing in her ears had found an accompanying symptom in the flashes of colour now tainting her vision. She was pretty sure she could also taste something bitter and vaguely like copper in her mouth, but what precisely that might mean she didn't know. Obviously she'd been rather severely injured, but all things considered she probably didn't need the additional symptom to tell her that one. The pain was quite sufficient.

Dimly, she could see the great shadowy bulk of the tree raising it's root-legs high into the air for another blow, and though blood and bile leaked from her mouth she managed to open it long enough to hiss a couple of words.

"Fuck... you."

Fortunately, she was saved from the ignominy of having such a unrefined choice of last words when a large sack flew in from somewhere out of her line of sight and crashed into the Treant's exposed flank. There was the harsh cracking sound of a dozen glass bottles shattering upon impact, and a heartbeat later a full half of Jurak's immense bulk was covered in a blazing coat of orange flames. The Treant staggered sideways, it's footsteps shaking the ground, and roared in pain and fear as it desperately attempted to extinguish the searing flames. Unfortunately, one of the most dangerous properties of alchemical fire was how it tended to adhere to the target even as the flames consumed their own fuel supply, to the point where even rolling around on the ground didn't always help in combating it. That was before one got into the inherent disadvantages of being made of a highly flammable material when faced with a situation like this.

As it turned out, sentient trees sounded almost exactly like humans when they were burning to death.

Lying in her very own personal crater, Mira took the time to marvel at the sheer insanity of the course her life had taken her on, that she had ever found herself in a position to learn something like that. If she ever sat down one day and wrote an autobiography, presumably after having changed the laws of the country sufficiently that possession of such a work was not an offense punishable by execution, she would have her work cut out for her to present this particular adventure in a way that didn't get it instantly dismissed as utter fiction.

She was still lying there, staring up at the canopy and the sky beyond, when Timeon poked his head into her field of view. "So, I probably just used all of our alchemical fire in a single attack, but I figured it was worth it." He said dryly. "How's your day going?"

Mira took a moment to consider commenting on his utter lack of obvious concern for her welfare, before deciding that there probably wasn't much point. "Good news... I can still feel everything below my neck. Bad news... I can still feel everything below my neck. Also, ow."

The corner of Timeon's lip quirked up into an involuntary smile. "I'll get the healing potions then, shall I?"

Mira didn't bother dignifying that one with a response.

-/-

One hour, and half a dozen healing potions later, they reached the Horn of Abaddon. Viewed at range there was nothing to particularly distinguish this jagged peak from any of the dozen or so others that lay less than a couple of miles away in all directions, but the closer one drew the more obvious the differences became, until eventually even the least observant explorer would recognize the signs of deliberate construction.

If absolutely nothing else, natural processes did not usually shape geographic landmarks into gigantic three-eyed daemonic skulls.

"It appears the Sons of the Pale Horsemen were not particularly concerned with subtlety." Mira said dryly, standing at the base of the mountain-fortress and staring up at it. From base to tip the stone spire looked to be somewhere in the region of five hundred feet tall, though the regular conical structure seemed to have slumped and distorted somewhat. She could make out three separate openings in the face of the Horn, the lower two accessible by great flights of moss-covered stairs that wound their way up the side of the mountain. The gaping caverns were partially concealed by walls of hanging vines, but none the less managed to give the impression of baleful eyes, while at the base of the mountain a large muddy cave looked like nothing quite so much as a gaping maw. "Points for style, though, if nothing else."

"Yeah. I mean, they actually have a _skull-fortress_." Timeon agreed, placing his hands on his hips and looking the ominous structure up and down. "I mean here we are, forced to used magical disguises and hide our allegiance at all times lest the inquisitor's burn us at the stake, and these guys had an actual fortress in the shape of a giant skull. I'm not entirely sure what that says about them, or us, but it definitely means _something_."

"Think I saw something like this in a dream once." Grumblejack added, scratching his chin in a contemplative fashion. "Or maybe I'd just been listening to tavern stories for too long. Bah, it doesn't matter. Which way do we go?"

"The caves." Mira said simply, though she had to admit that the poorly-lit and stalagmite-encrusted opening was quite possibly the least inviting destination she had ever seen. Still, there were several large wooden posts driven into the soft ground around the entrance and festooned with small bones and colorful plants, and that generally indicated some kind of inhabitant, if not an especially friendly one. "I want to know who else has moved in before we go dodging decades-old traps and whatever else the Victor left behind to guard this place."

Neither of her companions looked particularly happy at her decision, but nor did they make any serious protest, and Mira decided she would just have to be content with that. Moving slowly to avoid both the clinging mud and to give herself time to spot any attempted ambushes, Mira made her way inside, one hand on the hilt of her sword.

The interior of the cavern turned out to be precisely as unpleasant as she had been expecting, which was saying a fair amount. The air was cool and humid to the point of being cloying, and the stone roof constantly shed small drops of water that turned the ground underfoot into a thick layer of sucking mud. One part of Mira's mind was already contemplating the defensive uses of such a natural barrier, a region of ground that slowed and broke up any attempted charge against troops within, who would probably be armed with missile weapons to make the most of the time gained. The rest of her was busy suppressing the shudders of disgust that threatened to overwhelm her as she squelched her way through the mess. Distantly she thought she might be able to detect the scent of old blood and dry smoke, but the forest outside was filled with enough strange smells that she couldn't confidently claim this was any different.

Towards the back of the cavern several tunnels loomed in the shadows, confirming her suspicion that a whole network of caves could likely be found underneath the Horn, though they seemed more the product of natural erosion than any deliberate artifice. Picking one almost at random, Mira led her small team deeper into the darkness, eyes straining as they watched for the signs of the defenders which were almost certainly here. After perhaps thirty feet the tunnel opened up into another cavern, this one absolutely festooned with stalactites and stalagmites of impressive size, until it almost seemed to resemble a strange subterranean forest. The ground between the stone spikes was once again covered with a thick layer of sucking mud, but there was a narrow strip running through the centre towards an opening on the far side which looked to be relatively dry and solid. Breathing a sigh of relief, Mira headed for the far side of the chamber, her two companions close behind.

They were halfway across when the ambush came. With a series of deafening croaks that echoed madly in the tight confines of the cave, half a dozen vaguely humanoid shapes burst out from behind the stalagmites, their leathery green skin smeared with dark mud to aid in camouflaging them. In form they resembled nothing quite so much as gigantic frogs bent into the shape of a man, clutching crude stone-tipped spears in webbed hands as they bounded towards their prey with hungry enthusiasm.

 _Boggards. Lovely_. Mira thought as she dragged her sword free from it's scabbard, already sizing up their enemies and moving into the first steps of a defensive maneuver. Ambush predators rarely persisted in the fight if their prey proved to be particularly resilient, so if they could hold them off for a few moments it was likely they would retreat. Then again the amphibians probably considered these caves to be their homes, which would imbue them with rather more courage and tenacity than anything else she could think of, so they might be motivated to keep fighting longer than she would otherwise expect...

"Nope." Grumblejack said bluntly, stepping past her and intercepting one of the Boggards in mid-leap. The frog-man, a large and burly specimen wielding a metal sword which had almost certainly been looted from somewhere, had its mouth open as it sailed through the air, and that was more than enough for the ogre to exploit. One meaty fist shot out and took hold of the long and sticky tongue inside the boggard's mouth, allowing Grumblejack to control the path of his enemy's flight with ease. One swift half turn and an over arm throwing motion later and the Boggard's fragile form met the sharpened tip of a nearby stalagmite at considerable velocity. There was a spray of horrid-looking gore, and the harsh croaking sound cut off immediately.

"Already fought a tree today." Grumblejack said, stepping back from his impaled foe and rubbing his hands together to remove the adhesive saliva from them. "Not fighting frogs as well. Not happening."

And indeed it was not, for at the sight of the spectacularly brutal execution the remaining Boggards paused in their headlong charge, apparently unwilling to be the next target of the ogre's wrath. Now they hesitated, each shooting looks at their companions as they tried to work out what to do with prey that was proving so thoroughly uncooperative. Mira smiled, and decided to take advantage of that hesitation.

"Who is your leader?" She called, hoping that at least some of these barbarians might know how to speak the common tongue. It was true that most likely had little reason to learn it, but you never knew, and she'd learned enough on the Wall to realize that an ugly appearance was not necessarily a sign of decreased intelligence.

As one, ten bulbous eyes turned to regard the impaled figure of the boggard Grumblejack had slain, who croaked faintly and twitched once or twice. Sighing, Mira rubbed one hand across her forehead in hopes of staving off a headache.

"All right. Who is your second-in-command?"


	22. Act Six - Zikomo Hears-the-Father

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty One

All things considered, the Boggard village was among the least appealing settlements Mira had ever seen or heard about. Some of that distaste was doubtless due to the many and varied differences between their species, for the Boggards were first and foremost amphibious in nature and therefore probably viewed the cramped and humid caverns beneath the Horn in a much more favorable light. Perhaps they appreciated the sensation of wet mud between their webbed feet, or found comfort in the low illumination provided by a few flickering torches. Even accounting for those differences, however, there seemed no escaping the fact that the village was a squalid mess.

Seven large tents were arranged in a vaguely circular pattern throughout a large central chamber in the cave system, each crudely constructed from piles of mud hardened by flame and covered with a layer of thatch. Each was lopsided or otherwise flawed in some way, and Mira honestly doubted that the roofs of any did a particularly good job in keeping off the near-constant rain of moisture from the ceiling, but perhaps such things simply didn't matter to the frog-men. They certainly had some kind of artistic sense, judging by the sheets of tanned leather pinned to the cavern walls and decorated with strange patterns, though she would be hard pressed to name any civilized artist who would be anything less than mortally offended to hear their works compared to such displays. Regardless, whether or not they appreciated beauty was of considerably less interest to her mind than whether they could be made to obey orders. So far, it seemed they were doing fairly well on that front.

It had quickly transpired that none of the surviving Boggards from the group that ambushed them had any actual understanding of the common tongue, likely on the grounds that anyone they might have learned it from was promptly eaten before any kind of lessons could be arranged. That had posed something of an obstacle to communications, but hadn't shut it down entirely, for despite their linguistic difficulties the amphibians were perfectly capable of understanding emphatic gestures and tone of voice. Or perhaps they had simply decided that making her someone else's problem was a grand idea - either way, a few moments of improvised dialogue had eventually persuaded them to lead Mira and her companions back to what passed for their village.

More Boggards had joined them along the way, or were otherwise observing their progress from the cover provided by their huts and conveniently sized clusters of stone, but despite their significant numerical advantage and mastery of the local terrain none of them tried to start any trouble. Some of that was likely due to the presence of Grumblejack, whose mighty frame looked even more imposing in the tight confines of the tunnels, but most of it likely came from the massive sword that Mira held balanced across her shoulder. The blade was very distinctive, especially to a tribe of people that had only barely mastered the concept of using sharpened stones in their weapons, so it had seemed a reasonable guess that it had become something of a symbol of authority in its own right. The fact that she possessed it now meant that she could borrow a little of the status and threatening presence of their previous chieftain, and the fact that said chieftain was nowhere to be seen only compounded that aura of menace. None of them seemed happy about her presence in their homes, but they seemed equally disinclined to risk her ire by actually doing something about it.

With loping gait their unwilling guides led them through the crude village and towards one of the numerous tunnels that joined the cavern on the far side. There they stopped, pointing flabby hands into the darkness beyond and repeating a single word between a steady chorus of rough croaks - _Zikomo_. It could have meant any number of things, but to her ears it sounded like a name, presumably that of whoever the tribe believed best stood to inherit the mantle of authority from their fallen chieftain. Or perhaps it was the name of some hideous monster they hoped would devour her and so save them from whatever cruelties she might have in mind.

Frowning, she hefted the looted sword from her shoulder and took the hilt in both hands. A moment's thought saw the length of the blade consumed in hellfire, and she brandished the burning weapon at the Boggards in a threat that required no translation. They cowered beneath her attention, raising webbed hands to shield their bulging faces and crouching as low to the ground as they could go, but still their gestures indicated the tunnel entrance and their wide mouths gave voice to the name - _Zikomo, Zikomo..._

Satisfied, she dismissed the flames and returned the sword to her shoulder. Her training had included the use of greatswords and other two-handed weapons, but they were far from her preferred choice of armament, relying too much on striking one's enemy down before they could attack than in any easy way to defend oneself from that attack. Against humans and their ilk it was a reasonable strategy, but she had fought too many monsters that simply would not die to a single hit to rely on such a method in place of a lighter blade and shield. Likely she would sell it, or perhaps bestow it as a reward upon some promising underling to use in her stead - but such were concerns for another day. Right now she needed to find out who or what 'Zikomo' was, and with that thought in mind she braced herself and strode into the tunnel.

The chamber beyond was, by design or quirk of geography, the focal point of the constant streams of moisture that flowed down from the mountain-fortress above. Larger by far than any of the other caverns she had passed through so far, the natural contours of the floor had created numerous pools of stagnant water, which in turn had come to serve as home to several colonies of luminescent yellow-green algae. The light they produced was weak and poorly focused, constantly disrupted and reflected in odd patterns as the constant fall of water sent small ripples rolling across the surface of the pools. When combined with the uneven surface of the walls and ceiling, the overall effect was quite unsettling; a dancing tapestry of light and shadow that tugged at the eye and taunted the mind with the promise of secret meaning hidden just out of sight.

Here and there, the walls had been decorated with crude banners of tanned leather and animal hide pinned in place with metal spikes or draped across convenient stone outcroppings. Some had been torn from easily identifiable sources, cattle and predatory beasts much like those employed by human artisans, but others had a shape and texture unlike any Mira had even seen before. She felt grimly certain that at least a few of them had likely come from creatures capable of walking and talking as well as any human, or even from humans themselves, but if that was the case the size and damage sustained by some of those hides implied things she really didn't want to think about. Most had also been decorated with strange runes and diagrams, drawn in multi-coloured dye drawn from the local plant life and given form by a less than entirely steady hand. Some of the designs looked to have ritualistic applications or occult significance, while others were little more than she might expect from a madman with access to coloured mud. True, her studies on the nature of the planes and some of their inhabitants was not particularly extensive, but she knew enough to determine the difference between actual arcane writings and mad scribbling.

Cautiously, her two bodyguards at her back, Mira made her way deeper into the chamber. The air here was thick and dense, more than might be expected from the humidity of the surrounding caverns, and she was unavoidably aware of just how many millions of tons of rock were sitting above her head right now. The caverns seemed to be geologically stable, but in a way that was even more disconcerting, because she'd seen enough of them by now to realize that the entire foundation of the Horn was likely riddled with them, a design feature that should in no way lend itself to sound architecture. The use of magic to reinforce and augment the physical properties of an object was a well known craft, to the point where an enchanted sword could be relied upon to stand up to stress that would shatter any normal steel into pieces, but she'd only ever heard of that being applied to discrete items beforehand. The amount of power and resources it would take to apply reinforcement on that scale to something the size of a mountain was... well, she could barely even comprehend it.

Of course, among the many things she _could_ comprehend was just what kind of side effects that an arcane working on that scale could have. Just about any attempt to employ magic on a large scale came with unavoidable side effects, which had to be accounted for and controlled to some degree if you were in any way sane or concerned about the well being of every living being within a mile radius. Precisely how one would go about containing the bleed off from something of the scale the Horn represented she had no idea - her knowledge was all largely theoretical and relatively rudimentary in nature, after all - but she had the nasty feeling that the cultists who raised and then resided in this place wouldn't actually have cared enough to try. They were, after all, the kind of people who literally believed that the sentient incarnations of genocide and annihilation were appropriate things to serve and worship, apparently without any expectation of being spared the lethal attention of those self-same beings when the time came. She couldn't see the appeal, personally, but by all accounts the Sons of the Pale Horseman had been a large and relatively successful group, so there was evidently something about their ideology that made sense to certain types of people, and those people would probably consider the emission horrific face-melting energies a desirable end to their magical rituals rather than an unfortunate and messy side effect.

At the very least, then, the stone of the Horn was likely to be thoroughly corrupted. Soaked in arcane energy for years, exposed to the sickening aura of foul ritual and blood sacrifice, infused with the foul touch of the monsters which dwelt beyond the edge of the material plane... frankly she was vaguely surprised that the place wasn't actively glowing with a malevolent light visible for miles. Perhaps she had Jurak and any of the other inhabitants of the forest to thank for that one - certainly they wouldn't have approved of such a thing existing in the heart of their territory and would have taken steps to mitigate it, but whatever they'd done hadn't actually lessened the foul sickness of the Horn, simply kept it contained. Some of that foulness would have doubtlessly seeped into anything that resided here for any length of time, and quite possibly into any natural phenomena encountered in the area as well, to who knew what end.

Frowning, Mira glanced down at the pools of water spread across the cavern, pools fed by rain that had slowly trickled down through a hundred meters of fiend-tainted rock over the course of years, and made a mental note to never, ever drink anything she found down here. Even touching it with naked flesh seemed like a bad idea, all things considered.

Still, it seemed that her caution was not a sentiment shared by the inhabitant of the cavern, for next to several of the faintly glowing pools she could see the piled forms of several dozen crude bowls and ritual equipment, as well as patches of toadstools and other flora evidently transplanted from outside the Horn to feed from this unholy source. Judging by the evidence, the Boggard tribe here seemed to have incorporated the twisted resources of this place into their own ritual worship, ingesting strange plants and drinking tainted water as part of whatever foul rites they conducted here to their strange and alien gods. Again, not something she could see the appeal of, but then she supposed a human would doubtlessly have a different perspective on these sort of things than a semi-sentient swamp-dwelling frog-man. She vaguely wondered if anyone from outside the tribe had ever actually managed to observe what occurred here and survive the experience; it would doubtlessly offer an enlightening perspective on the Boggard mindset and cultural traditions, but she doubted that the tribe was particularly welcoming to would-be observers from outside their species. The flayed hides on the wall could tell her that much.

As could the bones, for that matter. She hadn't been able to see them very well from the entrance, since the constantly shifting shadows and irregular contours of the land made recognizing such things at a distance more than a little difficult, but now that she'd moved deeper into the cavern there was no avoiding them. Stacks of bones were spread throughout the cavern, some neatly arranged into individual skeletons and some just thrown together in a crude pile that might contain the mortal remains of half a dozen victims. Some were still wrapped in shreds of equipment and traces of old and rotten flesh, while others had been meticulously cleaned and arranged to form complex runes and patterns that stretched across the cavern floor. More than one more the unmistakeable marks of violence, and several seemed to have had their flesh removed with teeth rather than any kind of tool.

Some of the latter kind came from something with very small bones, and Mira made a mental note to see if she could find a way to arrange for these boggards to meet a series of horrific ends while still remaining useful to her greater cause. If not, well, she'd settle for just murdering them all. Grumblejack would probably join in with much enthusiasm, and she could probably even find a way to enlist some of the native Farholders in a revenge attack if she needed the extra numbers. As delightful as such thoughts were, though, acting on them would have to wait until she found whoever or whatever this 'Zikomo' was and had a solid basis for judging how useful the tribe might be to keep around.

She was almost at the very centre of the cavern by the time she actually saw him. An elderly Boggard, his warty skin starting to sag with age, sat crouched on a small island in the middle of the faintly glowing pools of water. His hide was marred by old scars and a series of elaborate tattoos etched in faintly luminescent ink that likely made use of the same algae infesting this cavern, while the protruding eyes were little more than pale orbs filled with cataracts. It seemed utterly impossible that he could actually see anything through them, but the moment she drew close the old frog's head snapped up to face her.

"So, the time has come." The Boggard said, speaking in a blunt and raspy but still understandable dialect of the common tongue. "Father's Chosen one approaches, and the dawn of the new world draws ever closer."

Frowning, Mira stopped by the edge of the pool and gazed across the distance separating her from the amphibian. "I serve Asmodeus, not whatever foul thing hears the prayers of your barbaric kind."

It was, perhaps, not the most diplomatic thing she could have possibly said. The story books were full of this kind of thing; a civilized visitor stumbling across a tribe of barbarians and being hailed as the coming of their prophesied savior, generally followed by a series of adventures and moral lessons thinly disguised as the hero's acquired wisdom. Exploiting a similar situation and agreeing that she was indeed this 'Chosen One' would have likely been an effective if not particularly original solution, but that would have meant either identifying herself as a servant of whatever twisted thing the Boggard's worshipped or else accepting that they followed the infernal will of Asmodeus, neither of which was something she was prepared to do. Of course, if she was being honest with herself, the idea of her indelicate words provoking this foul creature into attacking her and therefore having an excuse to butcher the entire tribe of primitive monsters was... not entirely unwelcome.

To her surprise, though, the frogman simply laughed. It was a rasping, gurgling sound that echoed strangely in the dark cavern, one which betrayed an utter lack of anything a man might call sanity or restraint.

"Father cares not to what you pray, so long as you fulfill His desires." The creature explained in a gloating tone, hefting a crude staff formed of bones and stick lashed together with thick twine. "You are here to reclaim the temple, yes? To return this place to glory and turn it to your own ends? Zikomo has seen this, yes he has, seen it in his visions, heard it in the cold night. Zikomo will help you to do this."

Behind her, Mira could hear Grumblejack shifting uneasily, the stones grinding beneath his feet. In truth she was more than a little unsettled herself, for it seemed increasingly apparent that no matter how mad the old frog was, he was undeniably possessed of at least a small measure of oracular insight. Such beings were dangerous in a way that mere beasts could never be, for their souls were linked to things both ancient and mysterious beyond the veil of the living world, things that whispered the secrets of fate and the cosmos into otherwise ignorant ears for reasons that none could truly know for sure. The idea that one of those beings, be it god or demon or something else entirely, had taken an interest in her and her intended work was rather alarming.

"Why would you aid me?" She asked, resisting the urge to go for her weapon and terminate whatever plans this mad priest and his deity might have in a flash of steel. "Why does this 'Father' of yours want the Horn restored?"

At that, the tattooed amphibian sprung to his feet, shaking his staff wildly above his head so that the collection of small bones strapped to it clattered against one another in mad symphony. The ritual markings inked onto his warty flesh began to shine with a faint and sickly light, while the natural illumination provided by the algae began to rapidly intensify, adding depth and definition to the shadows dancing on the cavern walls.

"Father comes to claim His Temple." The old Boggard croaked, hopping from one foot to the other in some foul parody of a celebratory dance. "From the sea He comes, vast and terrible, drawn by the spire's light."

All around the cavern, the hundreds of discarded bones began to move, shifting and leaping in eerie symphony, filling the air with the sound of their rhythmic clattering. Several of the skulls began to rise as though lifted by unseen hands, their empty sockets filled with flickering light that rapidly swelled to become orbs of burning azure flame. Behind her, Timeon and Grumblejack turned to stand back to back, drawing weapons in instinctive reaction to the supernatural display that threatened to consume them.

" **Three eyes to see with, three songs to call him forth, three deaths to slake his thirst.** " There was a strange resonance to Zikomo's words now, a depth and volume surely beyond the reach of the old frog's ravaged gizzards. " **Curse the Light, Praise the Darkness, Call to the Void and He shall hear."**

More of the bones were rising into the air now, and the humid and stifling air in the cavern was beginning to move with them, a gentle breeze that slowly developed into a howling gale. Gritting her teeth, Mira drew her own sword and held it before her, focusing her mind on the devotion she held in her heart to hold at bay the grasp of shameful fear. Zikomo's dance was growing ever more erratic, his limbs twitching like those of a puppet cruelly played by some distant master, and whatever was behind the manifestation was evidently expending a lot of power to force the connection across the intervening distance.

" **Blood of the Servant to stay His wrath, lest all perish beneath His gaze.** " As if on cue, the bones began to bleed, thick streams of deep crimson liquid falling from them even as they began to move into a lazy orbit around the chamber. " **Blood of the Sun to claim His gift, the Tears that bring death to man and beast alike.** "

Mira's gaze sharpened at that, for it seemed an obvious reference to the plague she had been sent here to obtain, and with that clue all the other pieces fell into place and she finally understood. It was a _ritual_. Something, be it Vetra-Kali or simply a interested third party, was telling her how to break the seals that kept the daemon bound and thus complete her mission. Hastily she began to echo the words under her breath, seeking to fix them in her memory, for she doubted that the dark power currently possessing the Boggard priest would be willing to repeat itself once this was concluded.

" **Blood of the Victor to feed His vengeance, and earn a reward for your dark deeds. Thus is it done, and your Master's will fulfilled. Thus is the Seal broken and the banished one freed. Thus does Talingarde** ** _die_** **.** "

With that final, echoing pronouncement, whatever dark and malevolent presence sent to deliver the message withdrew from the increasingly battered form of the oracle it had used as a mouthpiece. Zikomo shuddered and collapsed to the chamber floor, slender limbs twitching in what might be pain or ecstasy, while all across the cavern the bones fell from the air and the light of the unholy water dimmed back to its original level.

Silence fell, and with shaking hands Mira returned her sword to its sheath, not trusting herself to hold it for any great length of time without losing her grip altogether. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she was sweating and breathing in a way more fitting for the aftermath of a full training session than... whatever _that_ had been. She swallowed, desperately attempting to get herself back under control before she disgraced herself with further weakness. She had thought herself past this sort of thing by now, thought herself grown beyond such petty reactions, but it seemed she'd just been fooling herself, avoiding thinking about the true nature of where she was and the beings she was intending to deal with. Well, now she knew better. There was no longer any denying the magnitude and vile nature of what it was that Thorn commanded her to do, not after a display like that. The real question was, what was she going to do about it?

In the depths of her heart, the first seeds of doubt began to take root.


	23. Act Six - The Horn of Abaddon

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty-Two

The Horn of Abaddon was a monument to death.

In the broadest sense, Mira could hardly claim to feel surprised, for the Sons of the Pale Horseman by their very name claimed heritage and allegiance to one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Grim and remorseless, the shadow of the Four Riders fell across every world and every plane of existence, a silent promise of true and total annihilation for all that was or ever would be. Those that would honour them, then, could only be expected to include appropriate iconography in their temples and places of worship. That much she had expected, even if the sheer scale of the place still took her breath away, but it had rapidly become clear that mere architectural flourishes were just the most obvious of the Horn's deathly nature.

People had died here. Most of them had suffered greatly before their end. Mira could scarcely even begin to imagine how many sentient beings had spent their final hours here, or what horrific torments they had undergone at the cruel and merciless hands of their captors, but it had to be thousands at the very least. She could still hear their screams, the faintest impression of their torment trapped and preserved by the malignant aura of this unholy place, distant echoes that lingered in the back of the mind and the very edge of hearing as she moved through the long-abandoned corridors. It was getting to her already, darkening her already foul mood and setting her teeth on edge, but that was nothing in comparison to the effect that it was having on her newly acquired minions.

Once Zikomo had recovered from the after-effects of being possessed by the strange and otherworldly force, a process he had undergone with an ease that spoke of practiced familiarity, he had proven more than willing to back her claim of leadership and control over the Boggard tribe. This particular group was apparently known as the Bane-Wog tribe, but there were apparently many believers among the other tribes scattered throughout the Caer Byr, and with her blessing several of the fastest and least incompetent Boggards had been sent out as runners to inform the faithful of the great work that was going to be undertaken here over the coming weeks and months. She could always use more disposable troops to stand between her and whichever band of highly motivated heroes decided to take a crack at stopping her, and Boggards had the advantage of being both easily replaced and of negligible sentimental value. She might hesitate to send loyal humans to their deaths in order to further her aims or assist in completing her mission, but a band of demon-worshipping frog-men? Those, she had absolutely _no_ qualm about sacrificing.

They weren't even worshipping the right set of fiends, having apparently lacked the mental capacity to distinguish between a temple to the Pale Horseman and one dedicated to the foul demon-lord of the Abyss they apparently revered as an ancestral progenitor.

Right now, several of the biggest and toughest of their number were spread out through the corridors behind her, slowly searching through the tightly packed warren of corridors and chambers that made up this level of the Horn. She's brought them along both as dumb muscle and as a set of ablative armour to protect her and her actual followers from whatever hideous monsters and vicious traps might still be watching over the abandoned shell of the temple, but thus far she'd been thoroughly disappointed on that front. The lowest level of the Horn, at least, seemed to be utterly abandoned.

Then again, perhaps that was to be expected. Everything she'd seen so far indicated that this level had largely been dedicated to the lower ranks of the cult's hierarchy, those without the skill or experience to earn induction into the higher mysteries. Many of the rooms held communal barracks of one kind or another, enough to house close to a hundred inhabitants in adequate if somewhat cramped conditions, while others served to provide the numerous necessary but less than glamorous facilities any settlement of such size would require. Most of the equipment and furnishings were heavily damaged or outright missing, having fallen prey to battle damage or simply decades of neglect, but there was still enough left to identify the likely purpose of each chamber. So far they had identified a smithy, a stonemason, an alchemical workshop and even a fully functional tavern capable of seating thirty patrons at once. Mad death-worshipping cultists they may have been, but the Sons had evidently spared neither time nor money in outfitting their headquarters to the highest possible standard. There were even storerooms with the preservative enchantments fully intact, and while the magical fountain sculpted in the form of the dreaded Charon looked suspicious as all hell, all of their tests so far indicated that the water it produced was clean and safe to drink.

All valuable and necessary facilities for a group intending to operate away from the regular comforts of greater civilization, true, but not the sort of place you went to any great lengths to secure with traps and magical guardians. Mira fully expected there to be some kind of hideous monster lurking in the ruins _somewhere_ , but it wasn't hard to believe that it would be assigned to guard the higher levels of the fortress, where the senior priests lived and where any truly valuable treasures could be found. On the one hand she was grateful that it was up there and not, say, currently in the process of eating her alive. On the other hand the building sense of dreadful anticipation was starting to wear a little thin, to the point where she might almost welcome an ambush from something big and scary as the price paid for actually getting it over with.

Still, until that moment arrived she was better off not fretting about it too much. She'd assigned the task of digging through the rest of the chambers on this level to Timeon and the Boggards, trusting the former to spot anything truly important while the latter handled the grunt work, but they likely wouldn't be finished for a few minutes more at least. That gave her plenty of time to properly inspect the room she had found herself in now.

It was obviously a temple of some kind, likely the one used for the rank and file members of the cult whenever they needed to perform their blasphemous rituals and offer praise to the terrible beings they worshipped. The layout of the floor supported her theory, for the chamber was by far the largest one they had encountered on this level, and positioned in such a way as to occupy a dominant position in the daily lives of those who worshipped there. Just about any route one could walk through the level would bring you past or within sight of the chamber, and without any kind of doors there was nothing to obstruct the faithful from looking over and being reminded of their devotion. Certainly it's design was a far cry from the relatively unassuming facades adopted by those Mitran churches that aimed to serve the common folk, a stylistic choice that doubtless had much to with reinforcing the cult's indoctrination as it did with expressing their devotion.

Six large pillars dominated the room, supporting the vaulted ceiling high overhead, each carved with the kind of intricate detail that bespoke a fanatical dedication to one's craft. No sane artist would reproduce the designs adorning the pillars, though, for few outside the death cult would likely find much inspiring in the sight of rank upon rank of fearsome daemons marching in battle formation, supported by stylized humanoid forms clearly meant to represent the cultists themselves. All were facing towards the far end of the temple, where a massive stone throne sat on a raised dais, surrounded by a tableau of broken and defeated angels that wept silent tears. The message was clear; the Sons were no mere collection of passive supplicants, but an active and determined part of the deathly legions pledged in loyal service to the Horsemen.

"Well, I suppose you need to take every step you can to retain the loyalty of your foot soldiers." Mira murmured, approaching the throne with cautious steps. Her studies had not focused greatly on the relationships between Hell and the other deities one might find in the multiverse, but she knew enough to understand that the long-term goals of Asmodeus and the Horsemen were fundamentally incompatible. That made her a chosen agent of a hostile faith, standing proud in her rune-marked armour in the middle of an abandoned but still sanctified temple. It was little wonder she felt out of place here, like an unwelcome interloper awaiting judgement for her trespass.

"What do you mean?" Grumblejack asked, from his position leaning against one of the pillars. Unlike the rest of their little group the Ogre seemed perfectly at ease inside the Horn, which Mira could only put down to a sense of truly exceptional self-confidence. The hall was lit by magical braziers that had ignited upon their approach, and in the light of their emerald flames the giant man looked even more monstrous than normal, from the gleam of his fangs to the tangled mess of his long dark hair. Still, the presence of a subordinate was doing wonders to focus Mira's own mind and keep her from revealing too much of her own unease, and for that alone he was worth keeping around.

"Every religion, every cause needs some kind of incentive to motivate the populace." She said, gesturing towards the pillars. "They need to believe that obeying your orders and following the rules will get them something they don't already have. The Gods bless some people with power and success, and those are usually the most loyal converts, but not everyone can wield the fire of Heaven or lead the charge that will one day make its way into the storybooks. You need incentives for the rank and file as well, a reason for them to do anything other than walk away or perhaps even turn against you. I can only imagine that this holds doubly true for those faiths and causes of a more... destructive bent."

Behind her, Grumblejack snorted. "No kidding. It's not an easy sell, getting people to sign on with death." He said with the kind of wry humour she was coming to realize formed a key part of his character. "Fighting has a lot going for it, and when I fight people die, but I'm doing it for the gold and the fun, not because I want everything everywhere to die. When is that a good idea?"

Mira smiled faintly, moving up the shallow steps to the dais and studying the carvings there. The details varied significantly, each angelic figure bearing unique wounds and brought down in a different way, but the overall theme of heavenly defeat was undeniably present throughout the entire display. "The Sons seem to have opted for the 'join the winning side' approach. Notice that none of the displays show the daemons and the angels actually _fighting_? That would imply that victory would be anything but easy and inevitable. This way, the lower ranks get to think of themselves as small but necessary parts of the invincible conquering army, supported by the sheer power fantasy of seeing even the heavens themselves broken down before you. It's not a complicated message, but it's a reasonably effective one."

It was certainly the sort of thing that would work on her; had worked, even, for she was all too aware that at least some of her reasons for following Asmodeus and Lord Thorn carried a distinct resemblance to the pitch implied in these murals. The thought of seeing all of her enemies and rivals broken at her feet, of ascending to the throne on a mountain of bodies... yes, it was a _very_ appealing message. The main difference, if you stripped away the motivations of her divine sponsor and considered the personal beliefs involved, was that she knew better than to think her mission was one to be achieved _easily_. She'd bled and suffered and very nearly died for this cause already, and she would do so again many times over before victory was achieved. The fact that she knew that and kept going anyway was what separated her from the rank and file, made her worth trusting with her master's more critical plans.

"Yeah, but they _won't_ win. Not easily, anyway." The ogre said with a frown, still leaning against the pillar and crossing his broad arms over his barrel-like chest. "It's obvious, isn't it. I mean there's a lot of folks that would fight them."

"You know that, and I know that, but the average member of the cult?" Mira said idly, turning her attention to the great stone throne and the commanding view it held of the hall. The workmanship was not especially elaborate here, which seemed like a strange omission given the excessive detail worked into the rest of the hall. She might have thought the throne a substandard replacement for something more impressive, were it not for the fact that it was physically a part of the dais itself. "We're a long way from civilisation here, and the Horn has everything it needs to support a significant population with only minimal reliance on outside supply. I'd be willing to bet that any contact with outsiders was restricted to the higher ranks, those who could be trusted to know more about the world without it shaking their faith or loyalty. As for recruits... I doubt all of their new members came willingly, or from anywhere nearby."

Slowly, she sat down in the throne, imagining the sight of dozens of loyal worshippers arrayed before her in the hall, hanging on her every word. "Snatch a child from his family, bring him far away from anything he's ever known and raise him here, surrounded by constant reminders of the power and loyalty of the Sons and cut off from any conflicting points of view. Is it any wonder you wind up with a fanatic? Repeat the cycle for a few generations and it likely starts becoming self-sustaining."

"Huh." Said Grumblejack, in what might almost be a thoughtful tone of voice. "Makes sense. No wonder the King was angry, though - most folks don't like it if you involve their kids."

Mira nodded silently, vaguely amused to find yet another point on which she actually agreed with the man who had forced her family from their position of power and authority. Had she been on the throne when practices such as these came to light, she would have spared neither time nor effort in finding where the cult was based, and having found them would have slaughtered them to the last. And slaughter them the Victor had - this level seemed to have been spared the worst of the fighting, likely due to the lack of importance either side placed upon those who dwelled here, but there were still signs of what had occurred if you knew where to look. Blood splatters that time had not quite erased, chips missing from the stonework where powerful blows had gone astray, and in one particular chamber a horrible charnel mess of fused bones and ash where a dozen or more men had apparently been herded into a confined space and subjected to some kind of immensely destructive spell.

Come to think of it, the Horn was probably haunted in some fashion as well. So much death and destruction over an extended period, coupled with a persistent aura of desecration and the prayers of a darkly twisted faith? If there was a finer combination of events for producing all manner of hauntings and other ghostly phenomena she had yet to hear of it. It was not a particularly enjoyable thought, but there was little she could do about it right now, so she would just have to be mindful of the possibility and carry on as normal.

Her morbid theorizing was interrupted by the arrival of Timeon, striding in through the portal at the far end of the room at the head of his small group of Boggard scouts. Her aide looked intrigued by something, but the lack of explosions or horrific snarling meant that it was probably a good thing, so she carefully removed any trace of worry from her tone before speaking.

"Timeon, there you are. Anything interesting?"

"Yes, actually." The young alchemist said, looking around at the blasphemous carvings on the walls and pillars with a scholars fascination. "It looks like whoever the Sons employed as an alchemist also dabbled in automatons to some degree - there's a battered old golem of some kind in one of the workshops to the south. More than that, I actually found the schematics and instructions they used to assemble and repair them - the Mitrans must have missed them when they burned everything else."

"That _is_ interesting." Mira said, leaning forwards on her throne. Talingarde did not make particularly extensive use of golems, but several of the noble houses and indeed the royal family were known to employ them as guardians for particularly valuable treasures or important locations. It was a role that the mindless automatons were well suited for, since they lacked the ability to get bored and desired nothing with which an intruder might try to bribe them, while also being remarkably dangerous combatants on those rare occasions where an intruder attempted to force the issue. "Can it be repaired?"

Timeon raised a hand and tilted it from side to side. "Going to have to go with a 'maybe' on that one." He said thoughtfully. "The basic chassis appears to be intact - it's made of metal, and the few dents it took in combat are largely superficial. The internal segments of the engine will need to be replaced, as they were made out of glass, and the reagents it uses for a power source need to be replaced as well, but that's all fairly easy to manage with access to the facilities here and the stores in Farholde. The real trick is going to be the brain of a sentient being to direct and control it, and getting that installed."

Mira's eyes drifted towards the Boggards, none of which spoke more than a word or two of the common tongue, but before she could voice the suggestion Timeon shook his head. "A _human_ brain, or at least something similar. Someone with elvish or orcish blood would be an acceptable substitute, and I think I could make it work for a dwarf as well, but anything beyond that is just too different to be of any use. Oh, and it can't have come from anybody dead more than twenty four hours, and even that's going to be pushing it."

Mira shrugged. "I'm sure we can find a suitable donor if we look in the right places. Depending on how obvious our presence here becomes they might even come to us. Anyway, if that's all, we should head for the next level."

Timeon nodded, and then fell in behind her as she picked herself out of the throne and strode back down the length of the temple. Grumblejack pushed himself away from the pillar and took up position at her other flank, and after a few pointed glares the Boggards began trailing after them as well.

The journey back towards the entrance, which was located in the first of the three 'Eyes' adorning the face of the Horn, served as an excellent reminder of the strange design choices the architects of this place had made. The complete lack of natural light once you were further in than the entrance was one, though fortunately the lamps and braziers strategically positioned through the halls still had enough fuel in them to be ignited with a torch as they explored the area. From a design point of view she could begin to understand it, for every window in a fortress was one more access point that had to be warded against potential intrusion, but the reliance on artificial illumination must have created a great deal of extra work for the menials that lived and worked here, and without any shafts to allow a breeze to pass through the halls she would have expected the entire place to grow exceptionally stuffy and likely rather pungent within short order.

Other choices were much less easy to justify - for example, the fact that there appeared to be absolutely no way to access the upper levels of the Horn from within the first level. No stairs, no ladders, nothing at all, nor any sign of where such an access point might be located. As far as she could tell the only way to move from the first floor to the second was to return to the entrance and then climb up a narrow flight of steps that snaked their way along the mountainside, exposed to any number of potential foes and the mercy of the elements besides. It was utterly baffling, and try as she might she could not understand the reasoning behind it. The closest thing she had to an explanation was that it served as another element of the psychological conditioning the cultists would undergo, separating the unworthy individuals on the lower levels from their lords and superiors above, but even that was a dubious motive at best.

From a defense perspective it was even worse. On the face of it having only a single way in or out of that level made for an excellent defensive bottleneck, and to their credit it was one that the defenders had evidently capitalized on, for the narrow corridor leading from the entrance into the depths of the Horn was flanked by a pair of guard rooms and obstructed by a half-wall positioned just before a turn. Any attacker would have to fight their way in through that singular route, becoming bogged down in the entrance tunnel and picked off by the guards to either side armed with ranged weapons or long spears that they could poke through the narrow windows. All fine in theory, but in practice the moment an attacker actually managed to take that entryway all the advantages of the position turned against the defenders, who suddenly had to commit their limited forces to fighting in a confined space without any of the advantages that being on the defensive usually implied. Worse still, without any kind of interior stairs it became effectively impossible to redistribute troops throughout the Horn to reinforce faltering areas of the defense. A small handful of troops could seize the first eye and then keep a substantial portion of the defenders bottled up on the lower level, to be attacked and destroyed at leisure while the main bulk of the attackers moved on to the higher levels and the higher value targets that could likely be found there.

It was possible that she was missing something, that there was a way to move between the different levels which had been concealed from even a thorough search for some reason she could not begin to guess at, and frankly Mira hoped that was the case. Not out of any real investment in the answer, but solely because it depressed and offended her on a professional level to think that anyone was actually quite this bad at constructing a defensive fortification. The devil knew she would be making some pretty severe architectural modifications if her mission required her to linger here for any length of time, which was looking increasingly likely to be the case. She didn't care if she had to blow a hole in the floor ceiling and prop a ladder in there, she was going to install something that meant she didn't need to go outside during the inevitable storms and other assorted varieties of miserable weather that would doubtless arise to plague and discomfort her.

Once again, though, that was a matter for the future. Right now she needed to focus on the second level, and whatever it was that she might find there. With that thought in mind Mira turned her attention away from the endless litany of complaints directed at the original architects of this place and back towards the surprisingly narrow pathway that wound its way up the side of the mountain. The steps themselves had survived the passage of years relatively intact, but the verdant environment had been allowed to spread unchecked and choke the whole path with a carpet of tangled vines, which served to slow their group down to a crawl as they carefully made their way along. Mira was only too aware of just how dangerously exposed they were out here, of the damage that a single sniper or indeed just an industrious idiot with a large rock could do to them if positioned higher up the slope, but fortunately neither was in evidence and they finished the ascent safely a few minutes later.

The second of the three eyes, positioned further to the right than the one below, was likewise built with defensive measures in mind. Simply standing in the entrance Mira could see the potential inherent in this defensive hard-point, potential that she would have to see realized if she hoped to defend the Horn against any serious assault. Just as with the level below, the entrance here boasted fire slits from adjacent guard rooms, a turn in the passage to deny the momentum of a charge and a defensive half-wall to offer cover to anyone attempting to repel attackers before they made it any further inside. In addition to that, however, was the pit trap cunningly built into the floor of the corridor and positioned in such a way that there was no viable means of walking along the passage without passing over it. Time had not been kind to whichever mechanisms were meant to operate the trap, for it now hung perpetually open and therefore obvious to the naked eye, but if she could get it repaired it would be a remarkably nasty surprise for anyone who tried to gain entrance via this route.

A glance down revealed a shaft which dropped some fifty feet or so into what appeared to be some kind of cage or jail cell, a distance which would almost certainly prove fatal to the majority of people who might be caught by it. With experience and success, however, came a level of resilience far beyond that of most normal men, and she would not like to gamble on the lethality of the fall where veteran soldiers and experienced adventurers were concerned. Perhaps she could have the Boggards create some wooden spikes from the abundant local foliage to line the base of the shaft with? Even if they broke under the weight of a falling victim, that would still lead to some serious wounds being suffered by whichever unfortunate landed on them. Or perhaps she could simply outfit the device as a non-lethal capture mechanic? She remembered that some of the guard rooms on the level below had boasted cells for holding prisoners, one of which was likely at the base of this shaft. If she lined the floor with soft furs it might allow her victims to survive with only a broken limb or two, after which she could interrogate them for information on their comrades and intentions?

All were interesting ideas, but as always they were ones she would have to revisit in the future. Right now she was more concerned with accessing and exploring the Horn herself, a task made much easier by the presence of several thick wooden planks that some earlier explorer had apparently used to bridge the gap themselves. The improvised crossing looked sturdy enough, but not being in the mood for reckless endangerment of her own health she sent one of the Boggards across first. When the barbarian utterly failed to plunge to its painful death in the shaft below she concluded it was safe enough to make her own way across, though a moment's thought resulted in Grumblejack being the second one to brave the trip. He too made it across safely, and the rest of the group followed without further drama.

She had barely made it past the entrance before her skin started to itch, an irritation that resembled nothing so much as the touch of ten thousand tiny blades dragging themselves softly over her skin. It was a sensation that gradually began to increase in intensity as she made her way further into the Horn, as though she had stepped closer to some intense but distant flame. A quick glance around confirmed that Timeon seemed likewise affected, his teeth gritted as he fought against the discomfort, while Grumblejack and the Boggards seemed entirely unaffected. That ruled out any kind of deliberate defensive measure, then, for she highly doubted that any residual enchantment or lingering ward would be so tightly focused in its targets, but what else would still be casting a pall over this area so many years after it had been utterly abandoned, and why would it be focused against humans specifically?

Or... perhaps it was not the fact that she and Timeon were human that was the problem. They were, after all, the only two members of their little party actively sworn to the service of an evil deity. True, the Boggards appeared to worship some foul demon-thing that likely resided in the furthest depths of the Abyss, but she knew all too well the difference between a true believer and one who simply attended a religious service out of obligation or tradition. It seemed that their amphibious minions were of the latter kind, and she had never thought of Grumblejack as holding any particular religious beliefs at all. If that was the case, well, it was hardly surprising that the Mitrans had left behind some kind of ward that would serve to prevent their enemies from reclaiming the Horn and undoing all of their good work.

"Spread out and search this floor for anything interesting." She said curtly, unwilling to allow her followers to potential see her in a position of relative weakness. "Timeon, come with me."

Tracking down the source of the aura was actually relatively simple. She simply had to walk down a corridor within the Horn and see if the combined burning-cutting sensation against her skin grew any more noticeable, a process that obscurely reminded her of childish games she had once played on her family's estate. The servants would hide some small possession of hers, and then would use temperature descriptions to guide her towards the hiding place, while she tried to use logic and her own childish cunning to locate the prize in the quickest possible time. It was a pleasant memory, but the process of finding _this_ hidden prize was considerably less enjoyable, so it was with some relief that she finally located it in one of the small side chambers deep inside the mountain.

It was a shrine to Mitra, an addition so thoroughly out of keeping with the rest of the temple's aesthetics that it was almost obscene. There was nothing particularly ostentatious about it; little more than a holy symbol and a book of prayers lit by candles and set on a convenient table, it was clearly the result of pious knights bereft of any formal shrine improvising as best they could. Apparently Mitra approved of that sort of thing, for even decades later the shrine was still radiating a palpable aura of sanctity and divine grace potent enough to cause her physical discomfort. It would have to go.

"Timeon." She said curtly, unsheathing the small dagger that she kept belted to her waist, "remove your shirt."

The squire looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Ah... why?"

"Because I need to destroy this thing, and just knocking it over almost certainly won't work. I need to desecrate it, and that needs blood." She explained, her words clipped and her manner severe in natural reaction to the ever-present discomfort the shrine elicited. "Only a little - not enough to kill or even weaken you, don't worry."

She could see the silent question in his eyes, the desire to refuse and _suggest_ that she use her own blood for the ritual, but fortunately the thoughts never became words, and after a momentary pause Timeon dropped his pack and began pulling his shirt off over his head. In truth she would not have particularly minded scarring her own flesh for this, but it was a matter of symbolism. An injury willingly suffered by a loyal (or coerced) servant at the master's demand resonated much more strongly with the themes and teachings of Asmodeus, and it was that resonance that she would be calling upon to undo the divine blessing of Mitra in this area.

A quick search located a shallow bowl among the other accoutrements on the table, likely one used to hold incense or blessed water in the simple rituals that the Victor's knights would have preferred. She picked it up and held it tightly in one hand, clutching the knife in the other as she turned back towards Timeon. The squire had finished removing his shirt and jacket, and now stood bare-chested before her, arms locked by his sides in a reasonable impression of military discipline. Nodding in approval, Mira went to work.

The dagger was a crude thing, without any of the religious ornamentation that would normally grace a tool of ritual worship, but in their less than extravagant surroundings it would just have to do. After a moment's thought she chose the chest as the best source of blood, both for the symbolic proximity of the heart as for more practical concerns of available volume. The sharp edge sank into the exposed flesh with barely any resistance, and though she heard Timeon hiss in pain, she was too busy concentrating to waste time responding to it. With careful, methodical motions she sliced three straight lines into his flesh, making sure that each was identical and that the whole pattern was perfectly symmetrical. Symbolism, it was always about the symbolism. Then, with the work done and the wounds bleeding freely, she set the knife aside and held the small bowl in place to gather the thick crimson liquid as it ran down his chest. The rich, distinctive smell of spilled blood filled the air, and Mira had to fight the most unnatural urge to lick her lips.

When the bowl was reasonably full she pulled it away again, gesturing for Timeon to bind the wounds even as she turned and approached the shrine. With careful motions she dipped a pair of fingers in the blood and, moving quickly so that it would not drip everywhere and distort the intended shape, began to draw the symbol of her god upon the old and fragile wood. Five lines, one after the other, and by the time she had drawn the fifth the first had begun to bubble and smoke slightly from the contact. Smiling, she set the bowl aside and bowed her head in prayer.

"Asmodeus, Lord of the Nine, Master of my Soul, hear this prayer." She murmured, carefully pronouncing each word in turn and infusing them with a deliberate sense of reverence. The Infernal tongue could give wildly different meanings to a sentence if you mispronounced so much as a single word, and a lack of clarity was not something she could easily afford today. "I invoke your name as my shield against the light, your unmatchable will as my weapon against thy foes. I implore you, shatter the flimsy veil thy enemies have left over this place, that I might better serve your will in spite of their foolish defiance. Amen."

Barely had she spoken the last word of the prayer than the infernal symbol drawn on the table before her burst into flames. The fire burned swift and fierce, fueled by no mortal source, and in the space of but a moment it seared right the way through the table, breaking it into pieces and thoroughly ruining the shrine. The irritating touch of Mitra's blessing did not so much fade away as disappearing, vanishing with the same speed as the light from an extinguished torch, and Mira breathed a sigh of relief, turning back to face her servant. Timeon frowned at her, but he seemed just as happy to have the irritating influence dispelled, and with only the slightest of winces he pulled his shirt back on and began securing the buttons.

That was when the daemon walked in through the door behind him, claws gleaming in the dim light and eyes glowing with emerald fire. Ten foot tall, it looked like nothing quite so much as a gigantic angry bear that had managed to sprout horns from its brow, while its paws were replaced by claws such as one would see on some oversized bird of prey.

"Terribly sorry about this", it said in a deep and gravelly voice, "but I'm afraid I need to disembowel you now."


	24. Act Six - The philosophy of Daemons

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty Three

At first glance the daemon seemed to resemble a normal, living creature, but with every passing moment that seemed like an increasingly ridiculous notion. Oh, if described in the broadest possible strokes one could fairly liken its build to that of an upright bear, with the horns of a ram and the claws of a giant eagle, but such a patchwork description failed to truly convey the full blasphemous horror of the creature standing before her. This was no mere freakish victim of arcane experimentation, as might feature in any number of tawdry tales about the dangers of wizardry and the mad hubris of those who practiced it, but a singular being that stood whole and complete despite the complete opposition of all the laws of nature.

That nothing like it could ever normally exist upon the material plane seemed little impediment to the fact of its twisted form, a bold and unashamed statement of heritage by a being that hailed from the very edges of physical reality. Indeed, by its stance she might almost say that it took pride in its own alien nature, as though transgressing all mortal laws and standards of physical form it made some grand statement against the lie that was the cosmos entire. From her current position, closer by far to the avatar of death than she had ever thought or desired to stand, Mira could see the way that the edges of the daemon's form seemed to waver in and out of reality, small clumps of dark fur boiling away into faint wisps of greasy smoke as the world sought to burn away the unnatural thing that wounded it so, only to be replaced by fresh growths just as quickly as the monster reasserted its own existence.

The fact that it spoke was absurd enough, for surely no coherent words could be formed by a mouth filled with such bestial fangs, to say nothing of the mechanics behind a word from something with no need or desire to breath as a mortal would. Yet speak it did, in a faintly accented version of the infernal tongue no less, and in a fashion that was not just understandable but actually verged close to being outright _civilised_. Even as it stepped forwards into the chamber, claws gleaming wickedly with deadly threat and small trails of lightning gathering around its maw, it spoke apologetically as though the intended violence were a reaction entirely beyond its control, as might a gentleman forced into a duel by some matter of etiquette or familial honour over his own objections.

On the surface such reluctance seemed entirely plausible, for it was well known that dark cultists and those who dabbled in the darker side of the arcane could call up beings from the lowest planes and bind them into eternal servitude. The fact that this one was still here after eighty years, still intent on destroying intruders to its granted domain despite the complete lack of any treasure or living cult member to defend spoke to the truth of this circumstance. Yet for all of that, Mira knew beyond even the merest shadow of a doubt that it was lying to her. There was no real regret in its words, no hesitation or self-loathing in the burning emerald orbs that served in place of its eyes. There was only hunger and bloodlust, an insatiable desire to rend and main entirely beyond the province of anything but a thinking mind. Given its way, the daemon was going to kill her and Timeon both, and enjoy every last second of it without even a smidgen of regret. Faced with such an ultimatum, Mira did the only thing she could think of that might stave off the impending assault.

"We are here to free Vetra-Kali." She said, keeping her words sharply defined and opting to use the Infernal tongue herself for fear of misunderstandings brought about by a linguistic barrier. No sooner had the final word crossed her lips than the daemon froze in place, shifting from fluid motion to utter stillness in such an abrupt transition she might almost have thought it petrified. What thoughts lurked behind those inhuman eyes she could only guess, but the fact that the monster had aborted its attempt to tear her limb from limb seemed to be a reasonable basis for judgement, one that confirmed her earlier suspicions. A guardian bound against its will would not allow the intentions of an intruder to have any effect on its own actions, but one standing watch over a place sacred to its own peculiar faith could afford to be much more discerning.

"Is that so." It said at last, abandoning the hunched posture of a hunting predator to stand upright instead, it's curled horns just shy of scraping against the ceiling overhead. "And what would drive you to such an end? You wear the symbols of the Nine Hells, and the Fallen are no great allies of the Horseman."

"Normally you would be correct." Mira said carefully, aware that there was nothing yet truly preventing the daemon from resuming its attack at a moment's notice. Timeon evidently agreed, for he was pulling his armour back on as quickly as possible and was clearly making sure that his weapons remained within reach at all times. "I make no claims of friendship, merely of convergent interests. I am charged with obtaining the Tears of Achlys for my master, that he might have a poisoned dagger to thrust into the heart of his enemies. That task demands that I return Vetra-Kali to this plane - unless you know of another way they might be obtained?"

The daemon shook its head, a curiously human gesture for such an inhuman being. "The Tears are Vetra-Kali's masterpiece. He will not relinquish them for anything less."

Mira nodded slowly, though in truth she knew better than to take the monstrous being at its word. The daemon was, after all, doubtless far more motivated by the prospect of returning its dark master to this world than in helping her accomplish her mission. If a way existed to attain the latter without the former, she could hardly count on the beast to inform her of it if it had any choice in the matter.

"Then my task is clear." She said, having to tilt her head back to meet the daemon's gaze with her own and fighting down the site of nauseous fear in her gut as she looked into its vile eyes. "I will free your master, and he shall bestow upon me his gift, that I might in turn unleash it upon the mortal realm in a manner that best suits my purpose. This is not a deed that will be accomplished easily or quickly, and it seems unlikely that the agents of heaven will stand idly by and allow me to complete it. Your aid, then, would be useful or perhaps even vital in seeing it completed."

The daemon smiled, an expression that Mira staunchly hoped to never see again, and inclined its ursine head in evident acknowledgement. "That it would, and few things should please me more than seeing Vetra-Kali returned to this world. Very well, mortal, you shall have my aid, and that of my brother."

For a brief moment, Mira was filled with the strong and utterly irrational impulse to insist on _obedience_ rather than simple aid, but it was a feeling she swiftly crushed in the interests of self preservation. If she was dealing with a devil such an appeal to a basic hierarchy would have a reasonable chance of working, but as far as she knew daemon's did not recognize any kind of need for such a structure and might very well react badly to any attempt to enforce one. She could ill afford to alienate a potential ally here, no matter what her personal feelings on the matter were. Instead, she focused on the second thought that declaration inspired.

"Your brother?" She asked, raising one eyebrow in silent query. "I did not think that daemons recognized familial bonds in such a fashion."

"It is the closest word there is to describe what we have - a common origin and physical form, obligations placed upon us outside of our control, and of course a relationship defined before we even entered this world together." The daemon said, and Mira could not shake the sudden impression that it was actually making a _joke_. If a human had said something along those lines she might have expected it to be a deliberate tactic aimed at breaking the ice and reassuring the other party of a friendly nature and intent, but in this case she could not shake the feeling that the creature would cheerfully murder her even while making what it thought of as witty remarks. On which note...

"Very well, then, brother it is. Have you names of your own? Calling you 'daemon' all the time, while accurate, is liable to get confusing if there are two of you that take the same form."

"I am Hexor." The daemon said, placing one clawed hand against its chest and dipping its upper torso in what was actually a reasonably accurate impersonation of a courtly bow. Mira's mind flashed to the thought of it dressed up in the full finery of a nobleman and she had to stifle a most inappropriate laugh at the absurdity of the image. "My brother is known as 'Vexor'. Abbreviations of our true names, I should confess, which we do not typically use for reasons that I might hope are obvious."

Mira nodded again, quashing the momentary surge of disappointment that threatened to make itself visible in her expression. It would be the height of foolishness to expect the guardians to freely offer their true names to any that might ask, especially to a servant of a rival power, for one of the elements that all of the old stories held in common was the power that knowing such a designator gave you over the creature in question. She would certainly feel much safer if a means to control the daemons utterly could be located, rather than continuing to rely upon their shared interests and pale imitations of good manners, but it seemed that such a thing was beyond her reach for the moment.

"Well then, Hexor, let us go and find my comrades and other minions." She said briskly. "Since I need you to avoid devouring or otherwise removing them, it seems like a good idea to actually point them out to you."

"Minions?" Hexor asked, with what might be a raised eyebrow if such a feature could be located among the thick tangles of dark and matted fur that covered its body. "A curiously blunt term."

"I took command of the Boggard tribe residing in the lower caverns upon the unfortunate demise of their last leader." She explained in a deliberately dry tone. "I do not expect much of them save physical labour and an ablative layer of expendable flesh between me and my enemies. So yes, I would say 'minions' is appropriate. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all." Hexor said, actually managing to inject a note of unmistakeable amusement into its low and rumbling voice. "Call it... nostalgia. It has been a long time since last I met a evil overlord with such a natural command of the appropriate vocabulary. Really, I approve."

For a moment Mira wanted to object to such a trite and theatrical description. She was a person, damn it all, a woman with her own dreams and desires that had motivated her to walk this path, not some flimsy wooden cutout more befitting of some cheap novel. After that she was forced to concede that as such terminology went it was not actually a terrible inaccurate way of describing her. She _was_ clad in ornate black and red armour while planning to conduct an evil ritual in the middle of a gigantic skull-shaped fortress, after all. So instead she simply shook her head and left the room at a brisk walk, Timeon falling in behind her with the kind of speed that conveyed a _distinct_ desire to not be left alone with the daemon.

-/-

They found Grumblejack in the middle of a large courtyard a few corridors over, currently occupied in the study of a large fountain that was carved to resemble three slimy-looking daemons constantly vomiting thick streams of water into a large stone basin. To the ogre's credit he managed to control his immediate reaction upon turning around and seeing his boss being followed down the corridor by a ten-foot tall embodiment of universal annihilation. He simply stated for a long moment, then shrugged his broad shoulders and grunted in what might have been surrender or acceptance.

The Boggards were considerably less composed, rapidly putting as much space between them and the daemon as possible without fleeing altogether, their warty skin turning several shades paler in what seemed to be a universal sign of fear. Mira paid them precisely as much attention as they deserved, which was to say none, and nodded to her more competent underling as she approached.

"Grumblejack, this is Hexor, one of the guardians bound to defend this place against intruders." She explained in brisk tones. "It has agreed to assist us in accomplishing our goals. Don't kill it, but don't trust it either."

Behind her, the daemon chuckled. "Better advice than most have given concerning me in the past." It said, though there was a slight note of what might have been threat or simple anticipation at the thought of attempted violence. "Also, I prefer 'he', if you must refer to me and my brother in such a fashion."

Mira glanced back at it, trying not to jump as she realized just how closely behind her it was standing. She had thought it to be trailing along in her wake, but instead it was practically standing at her shoulder. "Daemon's don't have genders, surely?"

"Not any more, but we were living beings once." Hexor said by way of explanation. "I recall little of those days, but a masculine term feels more appropriate than the other options, and so I conclude that my mortal life was likely that of a man."

Mira hesitated for a moment, then nodded. It was a sobering reminder of how the universe worked, that even such a creature as this had once been a mortal man, possessed of hopes and dreams just like any other, albeit one of such behaviors as to warrant an eternity in the blighted fields of Abaddon upon death. She had always accepted that the souls of the departed were consigned to an appropriate afterlife based upon their deeds, and since pledging herself to Asmodeus she had known it almost certain that the Nine Hells would be what awaited her on that fateful day, but such knowledge took on a new meaning when confronted with such a stark embodiment of that universal truth.

It was also a firm reminder that her understanding of precisely what Hell was like was likewise founded on such an intellectual basis, rather than the evidence of her own eyes. It would probably be worth correcting that before she was called upon to visit the plane in a more permanent fashion. Not because she had any great expectation of ever renouncing her oaths to Asmodeus - he had given her a new lease on life and a considerable degree of power besides, when all that she had been faced with was an ignominious death in a dank prison cell, after all, and that was a debt that a lifetime of service might only begin to repay - but she felt a certain philosophical objection to furthering the cause of Hell without taking the steps to comprehend what that might truly mean.

"Very well, 'he' then." She said, pushing on before anyone else could see her hesitation and moment of quiet doubt. "Introductions aside... Grumblejack, what have you found?"

The ogre took a moment to answer, tearing his gaze away from the daemon and mustering his thoughts. "There's not a lot left here. The Mitrans did a real number on the place, and it looks like they were trying to destroy all the decorations but gave up because there were so many." He said bluntly, crossing his arms. "Lots of private quarters, a few barracks, that sort of thing. If I had to guess I would say this is where the priests and the officers lived, the ones who actually knew what was going on."

"You would be correct." Hexor interjected, gesturing towards several of the doors that connected their chambers to the relatively large and open courtyard. "These were the residencies of the acolytes and invested priests, those who were training in the ways of the faith rather than simply serving others who did. They would meet in this courtyard to discuss the philosophies of pestilence and the greater meaning of their work, as well as devising new means to spread the word of the Horsemen throughout the land."

Mira honestly couldn't imagine what kind of twisted 'philosophies' could justify deliberately spreading death by uncontrolled plagues across the world. She had been sent here to obtain such a pestilence for her own use, it was true, but even that was in service to a greater end. What kind of mind began to think of the misery and suffering of a true epidemic as being a worthwhile goal in and of itself? Likely Hexor could tell her, but on balance she decided that she would rather not discuss philosophy with a daemon. Her sanity would probably never survive the experience, even assuming that their differing perspectives on the world made effective communication of that topic possible in the first place.

"I was right about the design, then." She mused out loud. "The higher you resided in the mountain, the higher your position within the faith. Which means all the truly valuable treasures would be with the high priests on the level above us, yes? How do we get there? We have yet to locate any kind of staircase."

"That is because there are none." Hexor replied promptly, seeming vaguely baffled by the very idea. Then again most daemons could likely transport themselves from one place to another without any need for something as mundane as crossing the ground in between. "To access the third level requires flight or teleportation via the thrones. Travel between the lower levels is likewise restricted."

"Of course it is." Mira sighed. "I don't suppose anyone thought to take notes on precisely how many difficulties such a lack of internal mobility presented to the defenders when a sufficiently powerful force _did_ decide to attack?"

The daemon shrugged, muscles coiling under its furred hide in a pattern quite unlike anything found on a human. "You would have to ask Ezra about that. The priests were the ones to decide the layout of the temple."

Mira blinked. "Ezra? I had thought all of Sons of the Pale Horsemen were slain in the attack. Is Ezra another guardian?"

Hexor shifted from one posture to another, looking for all the world as though he were actually reluctant to speak about an uncomfortable subject. "In a manner of speaking. Ezra Twice-Damned was the Head Priest of this temple when the servants of Mitra attacked. He was slain in the fighting, but his soul did not pass on. It haunts the upper levels of the spire now, consumed by its hate and rage, unable to touch the bindings that keep our master imprisoned but unwilling to leave before he is able to return."

The daemon actually looked vaguely upset about the very thought of such an existence, if she was interpreting his expressions correctly, perhaps even afraid. Which was a thoroughly discomforting thought in its own right, but one that did make at least a degree of sense. If she understood the position of the Horsemen on such things, death was meant to be final and irrevocable. The slain would descend to Abaddon, there to be devoured or else transformed into daemons themselves, and while she expected they would likely accept a resurrection of a particularly destructive worshipper in exchange for more slain by his hands, it seemed that lingering as a pale shade of yourself was regarded as an exercise in vaguely blasphemous futility.

"A ghost. _Lovely_." Mira said slowly, acid dripping from every word. "Well, I suppose it might know enough to be useful, even now. Let's go say hello. Where is the throne on this level?"

-/-

In retrospect, it wasn't particularly surprising that the throne could be found in the centre of worship for this floor, a layout that almost exactly mirrored the lesser temple on the floor below. The Sons certainly seemed to be one of those groups which held religious and temporal authority to be one and the same thing, so naturally symbols of authority would be found within the spiritual centre of the design. Indeed, if she had the layout of the Horn correct in her mind, Mira was reasonably sure that this temple actually lay directly over the one below, the pillars and thrones corresponding directly with one another. Presumably the level above would have something similar as well, if the pattern held true.

Still, for all the deliberately engineered similarities there were also several notable differences. For one thing, this temple was separated from the surrounding corridors by a pair of towering brass doors, with no secondary entrances around the perimeter that might allow any passing by to draw line of sight to the interior. She could see the logic behind that, assuming that one started from the peculiarly warped set of assumptions that seemed to underly all of the Sons' decision making processes. This level was the domain of the priests and other ranking figures in the cult's hierarchy, after all, and such individuals would scarcely need any reminder of the prominent position that their faith held in their lives. Instead, physically separating the temple from the sleeping quarters and communal areas served to reinforce its symbolic importance, creating a place of faith untouched by the baser concerns of everyday existence.

She pushed open the doors with both hands, pleased to find that their hinges had weathered the test of time reasonably well, and strode through into the temple beyond with a confident gait. It did not match the uncertainty in her heart, for even she was not entirely immune to the disquiet induced by the ever-increasing levels of morbid iconography that dominated the corridors as one approached this place, but appearances were more important that the underlying fact of the matter right now. She was all too aware that, no matter how helpful it was being so far, Hexor remained an unbound daemon and therefore was to be considered supremely dangerous and likely treacherous at every possible moment. Displaying doubt or weakness in front of something like that seemed profoundly unwise, to say the least. She had no idea whether the monster was taken in by the bluff, but if nothing else she knew she looked considerably more composed than her subordinates, and that was good enough for now.

As with the temple below, there were six columns arranged along the length of the temple to support the vaulted roof overhead, their surfaces carved in elaborate depictions of beings and places whose identity she could only guess at. Between each lay a great brazier, filled with flickering blue-green flames that had likely persisted from long before the cult's destruction. The walls were likewise decorated, this time with rank upon rank of joyful supplicants drawn from all nations and species, united in brotherhood as they walked towards the far end of the chamber with their arms outstretched. It was a stirring image with obvious motivational value, but looking at it Mira couldn't help but feel that something was wrong.

It was only as she made her way along the length of the temple that the source of her instinctive misgivings became clear. The carvings of the supplicants near the entrance depicted men and women in the prime of their lives, walking forwards with chins held high and smiles on their faces, but with each successive rank of figures that vitality seemed to leech away. The smiles slipped from their faces, their proud march became at first an unsteady walk and then an outright shuffle, and their flesh became by degrees sallow and frail. By the time she was half way down the hall the figures resembled the emaciated victims of some terrible plague, and nearer the end they were little more than animate corpses, the last shreds of rotten flesh slowly dropping away from lovingly rendered bones. Here and there stood the cruel figures of the daemons, herding the decaying hordes forward as one might guide a flock of sheep, their leering mouths opened wide in expressions of cruel amusement and ravenous hunger.

There was no dais at the far end, no grand display of broken angels trampled beneath the feet of the faithful legions; only a single, gigantic skull that seemed sunken halfway into the floor, so that the great stone throne sat within the space created by its jaws. The walls on either side were blanked and unmarked, so as to avoid anything that might detract from the purity of the deathly imagery in their centre, and above the throne was carved a single sentence. The letters were sharp and jagged, as though scratched into the rock by the claws of some great and fearsome beast, and for all she knew that might have literally been the case. Mira had never managed to pick up the Abyssal tongue during her training, but fortunately Timeon had proven more adept at that particular area of their studies, and he provided the translation without having to be asked.

"Lead the faithful into the embrace of blessed death." The ex-squire said quietly, as though unwilling to put too much force behind the words lest his enthusiasm be taken as agreement. "Though the last bit has a number of alternative translations. It might also mean 'oblivion', depending on the dialect."

Her mouth pressed into a grim line, Mira turned to study the carvings on the wall once again. She had initially supposed that the blank areas around the throne were meant to represent land that the slowly-decaying horde had yet to reach, but with the context provided by the translated phrase she was slowly beginning to realize just how wrong that assumption was. It wasn't some metaphorical step on the journey towards death, it was the _destination_ , the final fate of all those who fell into the clutches of the sneering daemons depicted all around them.

"Oblivion." She said slowly, the words bitter on her tongue as she followed the progression of the images with her eyes. "The faithful come from all races and nations, marching forwards in brotherhood. But as they progress, they begin to sicken and decay, their life leached away by the eternal hunger of the daemons they serve. As the changes become more obvious with increased devotion, the daemons arrive to keep them on the path, the differences in their origins slowly becoming more and more irrelevant as death takes a firmer hold. And then they reach their destination and... nothing. Nothing at all awaits them, just the utter destruction of their body and soul."

Gritting her teeth, she turned her gaze upon Hexor, fighting the urge to go for her sword and cut the daemon into pieces where it stood. "It's not exactly diplomatic, but on a personal level, I'm glad the Victor destroyed this place. You all deserve to burn for this... this _atrocity_."

The outsider just laughed, a low and rumbling noise made impossibly deep by its inhuman anatomy. "Do you think your king one some great victory here?" It said, baring a mouth full of jagged-edged and crooked fangs in what might have been either amused smile or predatory snarl. "The end cannot be stopped by mere mortal heroism. Eventually the Horsemen will ride forth, and oblivion will consume all that is or was or ever will be. Even the gods will fall before them, and all the souls of their faithful with them, until there is nothing left in all the world but silence and death. The Victor but delayed the inevitable by the merest fraction."

"Then I will delay it a fraction more." Mira said, her voice little more than a hiss. "And those who come after me shall do likewise, on and on through the years. You will not be allowed your triumph. _I_ will not allow it."

The daemon seemed unfazed by her pronouncement. "And yet you came here to return my lord to this land, and take from him a weapon that will do his work. Or will you defy your master? Is such a thing even within your power, little puppet of Hell?"

In that moment, Mira made a decision. Or perhaps she simple realized the truth of a decision she had made long ago. It did not matter what oaths she had sworn or what her master hoped to gain from it - an alliance with these _things_ could not be tolerated. The Tears must never be unleashed. She would not allow them to be unleashed. And if Thorn sought to do so anyway... then she would defy him.

It was a heady thought, and one that filled her with more than a little trepidation, but she was sure it could be done. The trick would be doing it in such a way as to avoid violating her oaths of obedience, which were held sacrosanct in the eyes of Asmodeus himself. A difficult task to be sure, but a necessary one. Mira had no doubt about her course - Talingarde would bow before the dominion of Hell, and she would reclaim the honour and glory that had been taken from her, but it would happen without the involvement of the Four Horsemen or their servants. A difficult task to be sure, but then, she _did_ serve the Lord of Ambition.

"Be silent, daemon." She ground out, not allowing any of her thoughts to show upon her face. "Show me how this throne works."

She would complete the ritual. She would summon the daemon, and obtain from it the Tears of Achlys. And then she would destroy them both.


	25. Act Six - Ezra Thrice-Damned

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty Four

As it turned out, making use of the teleport era concealed around the Horn was relatively simple. One simply had to sit in one of the thrones and clearly intone a particular word, which was carefully chosen to have no actual meaning and thus never come up in casual conversation, and the inbuilt magic of the Horn would transport you to the intended destination. The potential applications of such a system were fascinating, especially if she could figure out a way to apply them to other strategically important locations throughout the country, but right now Mira had much larger things on her mind. Fortunately the transition was relatively smooth, without any of the flashy side effects that some teleportation magic seemed required to include. She simply closed her eyes, spoke the word and then opened them again to look upon an entirely different location.

There had been a moment of doubt when she contemplated using this method to ascend to the upper levels of the temple, for she was all too aware that relying on a daemon to give you a perfectly accurate and honest assessment of something could very easily turn out to be a critical mistake, but in this case it seemed her fears of betrayal were unwarranted. The device deposited her in a kneeling position in the middle of a large hemispherical room, surrounded by a ring of small abyssal runes carved into the stone flagstones underfoot with a carefully precise hand. After a moment passed in which she was not suddenly ambushed by some hideous monster or turned inside out by whatever devious trap the creators of the Horn might have installed, she concluded that it was probably safe enough to stand up and take a look around.

There were two exits from the room, large wooden doors set into recessed alcoves and bereft of any kind of signs that might indicate what lay beyond, but they were not the primary feature of note when she considered her surroundings. No, that dubious honour went to the decorations, for just about every single inch of surface within the chamber had been carefully inscribed with long strings of words and letters in the varied languages of the lower planes. The script was cramped and tightly packed, each letter carefully etched in such a way as to take up the minimum amount of space while remaining distinct from its neighbours, as though the scribe had been concerned about the possibility of running out of room before they could fully transcribe whatever blasphemous message burned in their tormented mind.

Having only learned to speak Infernal as part of her studies and having little time or desire to dedicate to the study of those languages favored in the Abyss, Mira could only understand small portions of the text displayed all around her. Most seemed to be focused upon various esoteric and philosophical matters pertaining to the lower planes, though without the knowledge of the other languages she could tell that she was missing a great deal of context and clarifying detail. More than that, something about the particular way that the scripture was laid out seemed to hint at even more hidden meanings just below the surface, occult secrets revealed in the spatial relationships between disparate sections of text and strange symbols formed of blasphemous prayers viewed from the proper direction. It was fascinating in its own way, but trying to study it for more than a few moments strained the eye, and Mira was fully aware that she did not have the time to waste on such an academic pursuit right now in any case.

Shaking her head, she picked one of the doors and random and strode across to open it, relieved to find that the death priests had apparently not seen the need to lock the interior doors in their place of power. Or perhaps they had, and the additional security had not survived the relentless fury of the Victor's crusaders. That certainly seemed to be a possibility, as the chamber beyond the door had evidently been the site of a fierce battle between the defenders of the temple and the faithful warrior-priests that had stormed the place at their king's command. Precisely what type of magic had been unleashed here and by who was impossible to determine, but it had been potent enough to gouge long trenches in the stone walls and tiled floor of the room, turning even the harsh mountain rock beneath to a semi-liquid form that had then proceeded to set into something that looked oddly like tinted glass. Mira was put oddly in mind of the devastation left behind by a severe storm, where lightning struck the earth and left burning scars across mud and stone alike, but this had certainly been both more potent and focused than any natural event she had ever heard of.

Shaking her head, Mira turned around and headed for the other door, making a note to remember this place in the future. It was always good to be reminded that, no matter what she might personally think about the Church of Mitra and the House of Darius, both possessed the capability to wield immense power against those who thought to challenge them. She could despise them and oppose them, but she must never come to underestimate them, for that would inevitably see her cast down just as the Sons of the Pale Horseman had been, all of her dreams and ambitions burned to ashes upon the inquisitor's pyre.

The second door proved to connect the room with the scripture to a major passageway that likely served as the main nexus of the upper levels. She could see four other doors leading off along the sides of the corridor, presumably leading to other chambers of similar importance, while each end of the passageway opened up into a much larger space. To the south she could see a small balcony that provided a marvelous vantage point over the Caer Byr, the open design offering no real design in a climate as perpetually warm as this one, while to the north the passage opened up into a high vaulted chamber that seemed to be the hallmark of the primary places of worship inside this strange and labyrinthine temple.

Determined to find this ghost of the old high priest before it found her, and concluding that it might well choose to linger in the area most strongly associated with its living faith, she turned and strode to the north, setting one hand upon the hilt of her sword. Most ghosts could not be harmed by steel, but an enchanted weapon would inflict at least some degree of damage, and that was better than nothing right now. Not that she particularly intended to start a fight with the spirit if it could be avoided, but she was cynical enough to realize that her desires might not enter into things if the ghost was as far gone as she feared it could be, and if that was the case it was better to be prepared. Certainly the idea of lingering in this place for eighty years or more, trapped between life and death and tormented by the knowledge that you had failed your god seemed likely to cause insanity in those unfortunate enough to experience it, and she was reasonably certain that one had to be mad to serve as the high priest of an apocalypse cult in the first place.

As with just about every viable surface in this place, the walls of the hallway had been carved into a series of technically impressive but deeply disturbing murals. These ones seemed to be telling a story of some kind, starting near the entrance from the balcony and progressing along the length of the corridor to reach the present day just before the entrance to the temple. It seemed to be a historical record, telling the story of a singularly important member of the faith (or perhaps even Vetra-Kali itself) through a combination of disturbingly graphic images and long spiraling lines of Abyssal text, but Mira had neither the time or the desire to study them at length to piece together the whole tale. Some of the sections had apparently been destroyed by the crusaders in any case - considering the content of the areas they had left alone, she could only assume the cleansed sections were vile in a way no sane mind could conceive.

Vaguely she wondered about the wisdom of defacing the murals in such a manner. She highly doubted that any of the crusaders had made records of them before picking up the hammer, so each defaced mural represented a piece of knowledge forever lost to Talingarde. Certainly the Church of Mitra was well known for deliberately destroying records of faiths and traditions that it disagreed with, condemning them to extinction through obscurity, a habit that had done much to perpetuate the divide between them and the more secular academic community. Mira had always thought less of them for that, but in retrospect she wasn't entirely sure if her objection was based on individual principles or whether it was an extension of her dislike for everything associated with the House of Darius. If nothing else, it would probably make reintroducing the worship of Asmodeus easier in many ways, for there were very few now alive who remembered what life was like when the Lord of Hell was an accepted deity, and thus few who had any personal experiences to bias them against reintroducing his faith once more.

Of course, before she could even really begin to lay plans for resurrecting the faith of her Infernal Lord she had to overthrown the existing power structure that would prohibit such a thing, and that was the work of years at the minimum. Better to save such speculation for the future, then, and concentrate on what lay before her right now.

Off all the centers of worship she had encountered in this grand fortress-temple, this was the first that truly resembled a church as she understood it. Long lines of pews were arranged across the centre of the hall, allowing a worshipful congregation to sit and listen to the words of those higher than them in the faith as they focused their attention on the four statues set up against the far wall. Mira was not used to seeing such explicit icons of worship, for the Church of Mitra tended to represent their God through analogy and symbolism rather than anything quite so crude as a direct depiction, but that was apparently one more area in which the practices of the Sons differed from the mainstream. She wasn't a worshipper of the Horsemen, and indeed she knew comparatively little about them and their faith, but it was still abundantly clear what the statues were meant to represent.

The first shrine was a block of white stone, covered in depictions of shroud-wrapped corpses being placed into mass graves while emaciated humanoids sobbed in grief nearby - Apollyon, Horseman of Pestilence. Next to it stood a large slab of blood red marble, which might have been naturally that hue or simply stained by vast quantities of gore, covered in cruel iron weapons and scenes of ruinous slaughter - Szuriel, Horseman of War. To the right was a massive black altar engraved with skeletal figures stripped of all but the barest rudiments of flesh by some terrible hunger - Trelmarixian, Horseman of Famine. And finally, distinguished as much by the utter lack of any supporting illustration as by the large skull-like icon with coins for eyes, stood the shrine of Charon, Horseman of Death.

The shrines were imposing and ominous in their own right, certainly objects of reverence and fear to those who gathered here to give praise to their foul deities, but surprisingly they were not the primary focus of the room. No, that honour went to the large carving on the wall behind the shrines, set in the midst of numerous scenes of debauchery and inhuman cruelty that spanned the entire width of the wall and indeed most of the rest of the chamber as well. It was positioned in a central position directly in the middle of the four statues, and while the figure illustrated there was depicted in such a way as to be obviously giving homage to the representations of the Horsemen, it was abundantly clear that it was the focus of worship for the cultists that inhabited this place; the Daemon Lord Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes.

Curiously, now that she thought about it Mira was pretty sure that this was the first time she had laid eyes upon a depiction of the cult's leader, for the lower levels had never held anything more direct than illustrated analogies for the masses who inhabited them. Was that because the cult hierarchy secured its power and authority by keeping the exact truths of what their faith entailed as a mystery to be doled out only to the most worthy, or was it simply because most humans would balk at serving such a hideous monstrosity, no matter how warped they had become by the constant indoctrination built in their daily lives? Either might be the case, for while she had heard of many cults which practiced the former, there was no denying that the actual image of the daemon lord was one to inspire fear and disgust far more easily than religious devotion.

It was hard to tell the daemon's precise size from the carving, which lacked any easily comparable scale and might well base relative size on symbolic importance more than actual physical form, but it seemed likely that it was at least as tall as any human, and likely quite a bit taller. The build, though, was frail to the point of being emaciated, the skin robbed of colour and texture by the medium of illustration but still obviously marked by pustules and plague-scars. Whoever the artist was, they had done a masterful job there, for despite what should have been a frail and slender being the image of Vetra-Kali still managed to radiate physical and spiritual might, an aura complemented by the lack of obvious muscles rather than betrayed by it. Six arms radiated from the central torso, spread in a gesture of genuflection that encompassed the icons of the Four Horsemen without actually going so far as to suggest any sense of inferiority; fealty without submission. It was the head that really drew the eye, however, that strange horse-like skull punctured by a single curling horn and set with three menacing eyes, for even rendered in such a form the mere image of the daemon lord seemed to conjure an air of power and authority that hung around it like a shroud.

All of that, however, swiftly took on a decidedly lesser importance as Mira finally located what she'd been searching for. Kneeling before the image, head bowed in a display that was as much abject submission as adoring worship, was a man dressed in long flowing robes that pooled around him on the cold stone floor. For a moment Mira was given to doubt, the sight before her almost enough to convince her of some mistake in the information received from the daemon still waiting on the level below, to entertain the idea that one of the old death priests might have survived the annihilation of his cult and persisted here across the decades that followed, sustained by some unholy magic bestowed upon him by his foul patron. It was only when the priest rose slowly to his feet and turned to look at her that the truth became clear.

Ezra Twice-Damned, as the daemon had called him, had apparently passed below that threshold for a third time. In life he must have been a terror to behold, a large and muscular man swathed in ornate robes that did little to hide his powerful build but augmented it with the trappings of spiritual power, the kind of man that tolerated nothing less than absolute and unquestioning obedience from all around him. Now though those robes hung slack, their size and shape still appropriate for the broad torso he must have boasted but the gentle rhythm of their movements entirely disconnected from any contact with unyielding flesh beneath, as though draped across a mannequin of slender wires and allowed to hang loosely. The eyes that once blazed with power and authority now shone in an altogether more literal fashion, two small pin-pricks of burning emerald light set amidst the amorphous mass of shadows that lay beneath the tattered cowl. In this place, surrounded by the reminders of his life and unwavering devotion to his god, the grip the ghost could muster upon this thrice-cursed form of existence was strong indeed, but even if he stood solid and opaque there was no chance of mistaking him for one of the living any more.

"Ah... another comes. Another servant of the Knot of Thorns, here to claim my temple for their own." The voice was thin and wavering, like the gentle hiss of wind through an open door, and though it emanated from the general vicinity of the hooded figure Mira could see no sign of moving lips within that shadowed mass. That was to be expected, though; the particulars of incorporeal undead could change dramatically depending on the circumstances of their passing and oft-unwilling resurrection, but one of the common factors to all of them was the way that their forms matched their own self image. Ezra might have remained fixated upon his trappings of power, upon the size that he instinctively paired with his own physical strength, but he was distinctly less likely to have given much thought to retaining the exact details of his facial features or indeed a face at all.

"It's not _your_ temple." She said bluntly, unwilling to allow the ghost to control the flow of this conversation. "You lost any claim to it when you allowed the victor to banish Vetra-Kali. Fortunately for you, I am here to undo that particular accomplishment."

"Servant of Asmodeus." The ghost hissed, a hint of anger and genuine malice coloring its tone, though whether that antipathy was directed at her in particular or at all servants of her god she could not tell. "You have no power here. This place is beyond the reach of that pathetic would-be tyrant you serve, consecrated to the Horsemen of the Apocalypse and their most favoured agent. I should slay you for your impertinence."

The temperature in the Fane dropped several degrees, the chill harsh against her skin, but Mira refused to be intimidated. This wretched old shade thought to threaten her, dared to dictate terms and assume that it held the upper hand even while as blasphemies spilled from its frail lips? No, this she would not permit, for practical and ideological reasons both.

"You lack the power, fool." She said coldly, putting every shred of arrogant confidence she could muster into that single pronouncement. "Perhaps once you commanded the favour of your gods, but where is that power now? You had your chance when the Mitrans stormed this place, and you failed. They killed you, banished Vetra-Kali, annihilated your legacy in cleansing flames and laid down holy seals that even now persist in keeping your lord bound away from this plane. You _failed_ , completely and utterly, and I have little to fear from a failure."

This was a dangerous tactic, she knew, for there was no way to be certain of precisely how powerful the ghost was before she saw it demonstrate that strength, and goading an enemy of indeterminate might was always a risky proposition. The better tactic, the logical and soundly reasoned choice of action here would be to take a more diplomatic tact, to play on the wraith's desires and negotiate aid and information in exchange for a promise to return Vetra-Kali to the world. She knew she could do it, even now, knew how easy it would be to switch from the fiery condemnation she had already used to a persuasive offer of allegiance, to build upon the foundations she had already laid down and secure the spirit's aid with carefully chosen words.

Except... she had already made her decision. Alliances were for equals, those beings that possessed both a useful degree of power and a goal complimentary to her own, individuals with whom she could establish a relationship of mutual benefit and support. The Sons of the Pale Horsemen were _not_ allies; no servant of daemons was or ever would be. They were scum that deserved no consideration or mercy, and she would not lower herself to bargaining with such things as though they had any right to stand before her as equals. They would serve at her feet or perish upon her blade - there were no other options.

"You are a fool, devil-whore, you and your master both." The ghost hissed, malevolent hatred blazing in its eyes. "You think I do not know what you intend, what limited power is at your command? The souls of your comrades are mine already, and yours will join them if you do not learn some _respect_."

Summoned by the words, three more pale forms seemed to melt into existence near the back of the shrine, drifting forwards in complete silence. They wore the echoes of more practical survival and traveling gear as opposed to Ezra's heavy robes, but there was no doubting that their nature was all but identical to his, and everything about their bearing and movement suggested a distinctly subservient role to the undead priest that stood before them. Mira had known that certain varieties of the undead were able to create spawn, lesser copies of their own cursed selves held under unwavering domination and bound to serve their creator, but she had always associated that with more physical specimens such as vampires. The idea that a ghost could do likewise was surprising, but she had already known that Ezra was a dangerous and formidable creature.

More importantly, in that moment, was precisely _who_ the shade had decided to turn to its own service. Mira might not recognize any of them by face, or even by name should any of them still possess the mental capacity to recall such a thing, but there was no mistaking the unholy symbols which hung on chains draped around their neck or the crown of metal thorns that each wore upon their brow. It seemed that she had discovered the fate of the Fourth Knot.

"You insult me." She said quietly. "You insult my god. You slay my comrades and parade their desecrated bodies before my eyes, and you _dare_... you dare to demand my _respect_? No. No, this ends _now_."

Barely had she spoken the words than the power swelled up within her, the infernal might she normally had to forcibly summon leaping to obey her with eager enthusiasm. Whereas before it had always been a small stream, a gift from her master that had to be carefully controlled and doled out in measured quantities to achieve her goals, now it surged through her body and soul alike with all the power and fury of a raging torrent. Her blood sang with primal might and for one brief, perilous moment she feared she might lose her mind beneath the crushing waves of ecstatic pleasure that rolled throughout her body and soul. The air around her, grown chill over years spent in uninhabited ruins and held far away from the warming touch of the sun now shimmered and howled with the infernal heat that radiated out from her proud and imperious form.

Her heart thundered in her chest, and for a moment she was confused. Where was this power coming from? She had asked Lord Thorn for schooling in the art of spell casting, but such was little more than an expression of intent at this stage, for she had read no tomes and received no lessons in the small snippets of time afforded to her thus far. Without such education to expand and develop her skills, how was it that she could call upon the power inside and be answered with so much greater strength than before? Barely had she thought to question it before the answer came to mind, a knowledge born of such surety that it could only have come from the same source as all of her divine gifts.

Lessons and lectures were for students of the arcane, those who thought to command the power of magic and shackle it to their will with the tools of reason and intellect, who neither needed nor desired godly blessings or divine assistance to change the world as they saw fit. Such was a fine and worthy path, a method that rewarded those who possessed both natural talent and the will to develop it with power appropriate to their commitment, but it was not the path that she had chosen to walk. The path of one who served the divine did not require occult secrets or arcane writings to control and direct the power bestowed upon them. It required faith and will, the devotion to a being immeasurably greater than oneself, the desire to support that being's cause and beliefs coupled with the strength and conviction to change the world accordingly.

She was a servant of Asmodeus, a divinely sanctioned warrior that paired her own skills and training with the supernatural might that the First Tyrant deigned to bestow upon her and used them to further the cause of Hell upon this plane. It seemed obvious, then, that her power would swell when she acted in a manner that her lord approved of and diminished if she disregarded his wishes in favour of her own. So here, in this place, when she stood proud in the sanctum of a rival power and declared the superiority of her lord and her faith, when she moved to avenge the insults levied against her by a worm with delusions of grandeur, when she claimed superiority and sought domination through little more than strength of will and faith... when she acted as Asmodeus would have her act, of _course_ the power responded to her will in a way that it never had before. She was the chosen agent of the most powerful being in all of the cosmos, and it was about time that she acted like it.

Ezra, perhaps recognizing her intent or simply determined that whatever she was about to do was against his interests, rushed forwards with shadowy hands raised. It was tempting to think that a strike from an immaterial fist would be harmless without any mass behind it, but the ghost had somehow managed to overpower and consume the Fourth Knot before her, and she knew that Thorn would not have recruited weaklings or fools to his cause. It was unlikely that physical armour would pose much of a barrier, even if it was enchanted as hers was, so she had to find a way to overcome her foe without relying on it as she might against another opponent. More than that, she had to do so before the weaker spawn behind him managed to weigh in and bring the full weight of numbers to bear against her, which she judged likely to take no more than a handful of seconds. Doubtless Ezra expected her to go for her blade, to pit martial skill and enchanted steel against ghostly form and ancient hate, but she had no intention of acting according to the desires or expectations of anyone else.

" **Kneel**."

The command tore its way free of her throat with an almost physical force, echoing throughout the empty chambers of the fortress like the tolling of some great temple bell. The aura of unholy energy surrounding her flared in response, until it seemed as though she stood in the centre of a great crimson bonfire, and a heartbeat later everything in the chamber began to buckle as some great weight had fallen upon it from on high. Showers of dust fell from the ceiling and the long wooden pews began to creak and groan under the strain, but it was the effect on the advancing ghosts that was the most profound.

Having clawed his way back from beyond the veil of death and into a new incorporeal existence, it had been decades since Ezra had concerned himself with or even experienced the sensation of gravity, but as the command took hold it was a sensation that he was rapidly reacquainted with. With his outstretched hands just inches from sinking into Mira's flesh the ghostly cleric was abruptly slammed into the ground with enough force to crack the flagstones, his immaterial form no protection from the divine weight pressing down on his body like the hand of an angry god. He tried to move, straining against the weight with all of his power and spiteful will, but his resurrection was little more than a holy mockery of his former life, bringing with it only the merest fraction of his original power, and he could do little more than raise his head to glare up at his tormenter.

"You... dare..." He ground out, fighting for the power to resist, calling upon the gods that had long forsaken him in a desperate attempt to rise and strike back, but Mira had no intentions of permitting anything of the sort.

" **Silence**." She said coldly, voice still ringing with that otherworldly force, and the ghost's jaw clamped shut. " **Ezra Thrice-Damned. I am Mirabelle Barca, chosen servant of Asmodeus, and his name I claim this place for my own.** "

The priest tried to rise at that, eyes burning with fury, but she simply concentrated and smashed him back down, forcing him to lay prostrate at her feet. " **You are mine. Your servants are mine. Your knowledge, your resources and any other aid you can provide are** ** _mine_** **. You will obey my orders, protect my allies and destroy my foes, in that order.** "

Existence as a ghost had many advantages, if one cared to look at it in such terms. Having forcibly raised himself in that form Ezra no longer had to concern himself with any number of mundane concerns, and being immaterial was even protected from a significant number of threats that might imperil more traditional kinds of undead. But for all of those advantages, a ghost lacked any kind of physical body. It became little more than an unbound soul, held together with force of will and unholy magic, and as such was vulnerable to the attentions of those who held such qualities themselves. Mira had imposed her will onto others many times before, but as she stared into her enemy's lifeless eyes and forced every last drop of power flowing through her veins into her demands, she could feel his will breaking beneath her attention in a way that was altogether much more _literal_ than usual.

" **This is not a negotiation. You have no say in this, no choice to make. This is my command, and you** ** _will_** **obey. Is that understood?** "

For a long moment the fallen priest struggled to hold out, calling up every drop of devotion and spite in his withered mockery of a soul to resist... but such was never going to be enough to resist one such as her, and he knew it. It was that inevitability more than anything else that finally broke him, the knowledge that he would fail here just as he had failed before. The fires in his eyes dimmed, his robes slumped as though the structure holding them up had suddenly collapsed, and Ezra Thrice-Damned bowed his head in acknowledgement of his new owner.

"Yes... my master."


	26. Act Seven - The First Prayer Part 1

**Act Seven - Thirty One Weeks**

Chapter Twenty-Five

With slow and graceful inevitability, the sun descended from the sky and began to dip below the horizon, beams of red and orange light bathing the jungle of the Caer Byr in a multitude of rich hues. The shadows lengthened and grew darker, until everything below the canopy was swathed in a thick blanket of gloom, and by degrees the rich melody of the animal world changed to favour the calls of its nocturnal members. The whole process was really quite a beautiful thing to watch, and from her balcony on the third floor of the Horn Mira had a perfect perch from which to drink in the spectacular view.

She'd taken to wearing more civilian attire over the past few days, the heavy suit of infernal armour discarded in favour of a lightweight shirt and resilient trousers. The Horn had been fully secured for some time now, and the difficulties presented by going around in full battle gear at all times no longer outweighed the slim advantages such paranoid measures offered. Which was not to say that she felt herself entirely safe, of course - Ezra might be bound to her will, but the wraith was canny and filled with hate, and he constantly strove to test the limits of his bindings whenever he thought she might not notice. She did not think he could escape her control without notice, but even the possibility was enough to make sure she kept her sword to hand at all times, belted to her waist where it could be easily drawn in the event of treachery or other misfortune.

Still, with the ghost of the temple's high priest under her command it had proven almost infinitely easier to uncover the rest of the Horn's secrets. There had been quite a few, yielded easily if not willingly by the ensorcelled spirit, though she was convinced that yet more lay beyond her grasp due to the simple ravages of time and the failure of even immortal memory. Ezra had only managed to hold onto those fragments of lore that he believed truly useful and relevant, all others discarded as pointless trivia by a being that could no longer rely upon written record or preserved lore. Fortunately, the existence of the main vault had been among those topics judged sufficiently important as to be worth retaining, for whatever the desires of the cult's immortal leadership the living servants of the Sons were still afflicted with the very-human sin of avarice. Perhaps they had convinced themselves that it was a simple necessity, that furthering the will of their dark lord on the mortal plane would require some level of funds with which to engage the complex mortal societies currently inhabiting it, but she thought such justifications would have become somewhat hollow after they started measuring the contents of their vault in _tons_ of gold and silver coinage.

The servants of the Victor had never located the vault during their furious purge, likely due to both a lack of interest and the simple fact that they'd killed everyone who knew where to find it. Then again they might well have failed to discover it even if they _had_ been looking, for the room had been exceptionally well concealed, relying on a quirk of the infernal magic suffusing the temple to exist slightly out of phase with the rest of what men would call reality. The only way to access the vault was to kneel before the statue of Vetra-Kali in the third floor shrine and proclaim allegiance to that dark being, an act which would have naturally never occurred to the pious warrior-priests of Mitra when they followed their king into the Horn. If you did not speak the words then the vault simply did not exist, the door that would normally lead to it instead opening up onto what appeared to be an abandoned storeroom bereft of anything valuable. Mira had to admit that as security features went it was quite a good one, made all the more so by the fact that she flatly refused to speak the blasphemous pass-phrase herself while there remained any other option. Fortunately, that was another place where dominated thralls came in handy, and she had taken to keeping one of the lesser wraiths stationed in the shrine to open the door on her behalf.

The discovery of the vault had done much to solve several problems presented to her by the nature of her quest, for the vast quantities of funds held inside were more than sufficient to finance her mission for a long time to come. Doubtless she could have made do without such resources to call upon, though she would not deny that they made an already daunting task at least somewhat easier to approach, but it was the other treasures held within that had proven themselves truly essential. She suspected that most of the cult's magical items had been in the possession of its living members when the Victor came, and thus had been looted or destroyed as too blasphemous to tolerate, but several had been judged valuable enough to be kept in the central vault and had thus survived untouched until the present day. Some she had dispersed among her small but growing force of loyal servants, but the best she had naturally kept for herself; an ornate silver belt that bolstered her strength, a plain golden ring that offered protection against all manner of divinatory magic, and of course the amulets.

Smiling faintly to herself, Mira brushed one hand against her chest, feeling the hard metal links of the chain she wore under her shirt with her fingers. The moment she had realized what the amulets were she had determined to never let them out of her sight, and as such had taken to winding their chains together and wearing them against her bare skin, that she might always know where they were and be able to call upon their power. She had always assumed that the cult had possessed some means of controlling their guardian daemons, for even the Sons could not have been so foolish as to entrust their safety to a pair of beings that could choose to turn on them at any time and for even the vaguest of reasons, and in these amulets she had found that method and taken it for herself. The thin metal plates had been carefully inscribed with the true names of each daemon and used to play a critical role in the original ritual binding them to service, and as a result had become fundamentally linked to the daemons themselves. The one who possessed them could command the daemons in much the same manner without any chance of disobedience, and it was that same link which had caused the daemons to return to the material plane after being slain by the Victor in the first place.

Thinking back, it might not have been entirely wise to take such unholy glee in using the amulets to thoroughly bind the daemons to her will, for nothing in the binding magic compelled the beasts to actually like her and they had not especially appreciated having their free will stolen away in such a blatant fashion, but she had a hard time actually regretting it. True, Hexor and Vexor had professed a desire to help her in returning Vetra-Kali to the world that would have likely seen them obey her orders even without such extreme methods, but she would have to be the worst kind of fool to willingly trust in the word of a daemon when there were more certain methods available. Even if they were not a direct threat to her health and that of her other followers, the simple fact of the matter was that while they were uncontrolled they would have to decide for themselves how to approach any particular scenario, and that could very easily end with less than entirely optimal results. Her mission here was too important to tolerate even that much.

Far below, something moved beneath the tree-line, a brief sparkle of fading sunlight on metal that snagged at her attention. Frowning, Mira moved forwards to the edge of the balcony and peered down, heedless of the staggering distance she stood to fall if she slipped. A moment later she identified the source of the movement and nodded in satisfaction, watching as a small convoy of humans dressed in tough leather armour emerged from the darkness and made their way inside the Horn.

Baron Vandermir had been most accommodating, proving the value he held through the strength of his connections throughout Farholde and the surrounding area. Once they had confirmed where the Horn was actually located and what would need to be done in order to restore and fortify it he had gotten to work in procuring the necessary supplies. The Horn was well equipped with storerooms and larders, most of them bearing minor enchantments that helped to preserve foodstuffs and other perishables against the humid atmosphere, and the fountains in the lower level still produced an endless supply of fresh and entirely drinkable water, so in theory there wasn't much need for any actual renovation. A few shipments of food and other supplies and a small team could hold out here for months without any further contact with civilization. Mira, however, was not prepared to endure such conditions for any length of time while there was an alternate option available, and nor would she expect otherwise from those who served her. More extensive refurbishment had therefore been in order - fresh furniture and linen provided for the barracks, mechanical tools to help repair the various traps that had broken down over the years, and even all the necessary supplies to completely refit and reopen a tavern on the first floor, which would do wonders for maintaining troop morale in the weeks to come.

There had been difficulties of course, for the Horn's location in the middle of the rainforest was hardly the most conducive to functional supply lines, but together they had managed to find and implement solutions for each problem in turn. The Boggards had actually proven themselves useful, guiding boats laden with supplies through the twisting waterways that ran nearby and vastly shortening the time required to move between Farholde and the Horn, a service which Mira had grudgingly admitted that no one else would have been able to perform. In many ways the whole process was actually pleasantly nostalgic, for managing the logistical needs of a small fortification had been one of her less glamorous duties as a captain of the Watch, and it was reassuring to flex those old muscles again and find her skills as reliable as ever.

More importantly than simple supplies, however, was the Baron's other primary contribution to her work here - his Orphans. She had suspected that the cunning aristocrat had been using his connections to tighten his grip on Farholde with every passing year, and she had never been so naive to assume that all of those contacts would be on the right side of the law, but it was still surprising to discover just how many criminals of various stripes found themselves working for the Baron in one capacity or another. The Orphans were an actual street gang and organized crime network, based as the name suggested around a core of veterans that had 'graduates' from the Vandermir orphanage over the years, and with only a little bit of prompting the Baron had essentially given them to her wholesale. Several dozen hardened criminals, ranging from thugs and murderers to professional thieves and smugglers, all of them unflinching loyal to their brothers and the shadowy figures that ruled over them. She had moved plenty of them to the Horn at the first opportunity, far more willing to trust fellow humanoids with the defenses than any number of frog-men or daemons, and they had proven themselves extraordinarily useful already.

They were the beginnings of an army, and with her own experience in that field paired with all of the various resources her contacts and position allowed her to call upon she had every reason to believe that they would soon be an army in truth. Already she had spies and rumour-mongers working the streets of Farholde, identifying other potential recruits and gathering information on rival organizations that she would either suborn or eliminate, while those she kept close were slowly undergoing the process of being transformed from mercenary thugs to professional agents. Combat training, teamwork exercises and superior equipment would all be necessary if that process was to be completed, all of which would take a considerable amount of time and effort, but the potential rewards if she could pull it off would make it all worthwhile. Introducing them to the worship of Asmodeus would also be a priority, but one that was best approached with caution, using the gifts that her god had bestowed upon her to verify the state of their souls before she risked opening their eyes to the full truths of who and what their new leader now served.

Not that any of them were so foolish as to believe her anything less than a true villain, of course. She could have attempted to convince them otherwise, to present some elaborate facade of normality and reason and slowly lure them in with a gradual process of corruption, but those were tactics for someone who didn't work with daemons and reside in a skull-fortress. Instead she'd gone to the other extreme, making sure that the first time each of her new servants saw her was in full infernal regalia, accompanied by bound outsiders and subjugated ghosts that trailed at her heels like well-trained hounds. It was an approach that tended to leave quite an impression, one which could be subtly reinforced by Timeon and other, less fearsome lieutenants at a later date. She knew all too well how important it was to project a certain kind of image when you needed to lead men into battle or have your orders obeyed. It would serve her purposes much better if her new followers believed her to be untouchable, swathed in power and authority and leading a life larger than any they could have previously imagined. They might not like their leader very much in that case, but they would follow her and fear the consequences of betraying or failing her, and for the rank and file that would have to suffice.

The sound of booted feet on a stone floor drew her out of her reverie, and she turned to gaze back into the upper levels of the Horn. As expected, it was Timeon, the squire having deliberately stepped a bit more heavily than required in order to alert her of his approach. Little tricks like that were common practice among those who served the nobility in one fashion or another, and she smiled to see them employed in such an unusual setting.

"We're ready for you." Timeon said, his tone and expression giving no hints as to his personal opinion on the topic at hand. "Everyone is prepared, and the Sanctum is ready. I'd say we have less than half an hour before it no longer really counts as dusk though."

Mira nodded, hearing the hidden message beneath her lieutenant's neutral words. She had run out of time in which to effectively stall - if they did not begin the ritual tonight, it would be obvious that the delay was of her making and not of simple circumstance. It had taken a fair while to truly piece together what was required in the first place, building from Ezra's knowledge of the cult's old practices and the somewhat cryptic words of whatever had chosen to speak through the Boggard shaman, and longer still to get everything set up to her satisfaction. She had stressed the likely time that this whole operation would take to Thorn during her last report, more out of a vague hope that circumstances beyond her knowledge might have made this whole affair unnecessary than any real hope of being told to call it off, but he had simply repeated her earlier orders. He'd even added a small aside about understanding the inevitability of certain necessary delays, reassuring her that such would not incur punishment in one of the least thinly veiled warnings she had ever heard.

One way or another, then, this was happening. All that remained was to do her job correctly and mitigate the fallout when she succeeded.

"All right then, let's get it done." She said, her own tone as thoroughly neutral as Timeon's. She'd yet to make a decision on whether to confide her plans for the plague in him, unsure whether he would support her or if his faith in Thorn would prove to be stronger. Of course, if she didn't tell him, he might very well come to a similar conclusion on his own and willingly betray _her_ rather than allow the plague to be unleashed, which would be something of an unwelcome irony.

Keeping her doubts from her face with the ease of long practice, she set off into the interior of the Horn, Timeon falling into step just behind her. Their destination was the Sanctum of Vetra-Kali, a place that she had not been aware existed until Ezra mentioned it as being the ideal place to conduct the ritual. As it turned out, the predominant theme of social status increasing with height above the ground within the Horn didn't actually stop with the high priest and his cohorts on the third floor, but instead continued until one reached the very peak of the Horn at least another couple of hundred feet up. That was where the Sanctum was, a simple hemispherical chamber containing only an altar and a single statue of Vetra-Kali, where the daemon lord spent its time on the material plane and spoke to those that it deemed truly worthy. Having been told about it, Mira had to admit that it made a kind of sense, if only from a purely practical viewpoint - you didn't want your otherworldly deity of pestilence and death spending too much time around the mortals in its service, after all, not if you wanted to still have those mortals a few days later.

What did _not_ make as much sense to her was the bloody architectural layout of this place. There was no way to access the Sanctum from the third floor, or indeed from anywhere within the Horn itself. For some reason the high priests had decided that whenever they needed to conduct their most sacred rites, the only sane and logical thing to do would be to walk right the way down to the very base of the thrice-forsaken mountain, make their way through a warren of muddy and poorly lit caves to a secret door built into the rock face, and then climb up five hundred feet of _fucking_ stairs to reach your destination. Then do the same thing in reverse once you were done and wanted to go to bed. If their chosen form and object of worship hadn't done enough to convince her that the Sons of the Pale Horsemen were all utterly mad, that design choice alone would have done it. When she'd discovered that the ritual they were going to need to use would likely demand she make that trip three times a day for six months straight she'd given serious consideration to finding some way to murder a ghost, then researching something that would fulfill her fondest dream of setting the entire damned mountain on fire.

Fortunately, after a bit of thought she'd eventually concluded that the solution to this most unappealing of problems was actually surprisingly simple, and indeed somewhat cathartic. She'd simply taken the daemon's control amulets, ordered Hexor and Vexor to demolish a few walls, then glorified in their horrified anguish at the enforced desecration of their temple. They'd tried to protest, even made a few threats, so she had magically bound them to silence on the issue and then had them tear open a few strategically positioned holes on the lower levels to make the point. That the newly accessible staircase allowed her people to move from one floor to the other without some ridiculous set of diversions was merely a happy side benefit.

It still wasn't completely perfect, since even brutally reorganizing the Horn's interior layout left her with a climb of some two hundred foot to make it to the Sanctum, but it was still vastly preferable to the other alternatives. If nothing else, the resentful looks that Ezra and the daemons shot her as she moved past them and into the staircase were positively _delicious_.

The spiral staircase was lit with magical green torches every twenty feet, providing the same ominous illumination they had for the past eighty years, and the walls were once again carved with elaborate designs exulting the inevitable victory of the daemonic host. These ones appeared to be focused around the children of the Horsemen climbing up out of some deep pit to murder and defile the celestials that stood above them, the various depravities illustrated with an almost unsettling degree of detail and imagination. Mira had found herself wondering if all of these works were the product of a single deranged artist, or if there was something about the doctrine of the Horsemen that reliably produced generations of such twisted yet artistically gifted minds.

"How's the golem coming along?" She asked Timeon, more for something to take her mind off the climb than any real pressing need for information. Gods, she could probably forget any plans for establishing a regular exercise routine while she was here, just having to make this climb on a regular basis would be more than enough. Not that she especially intended to do this personally for very long if it could be avoided, since she was fairly sure there were only a few very specific parts of the ritual that needed her direct involvement, and what were minions for if you couldn't foist off your less desirable duties on them from time to time?

"Well enough. The Baron managed to supply the alchemical reagents in sufficient quantities without problem, and I've replaced the innards." Timeon replied, evidently doing his best to not sound out of breath. "I still need a brain, though, if I want to actually activate the thing. And... maybe I could borrow Grumblejack to stand nearby and break it if the reanimation goes wrong and it tries to kill us all or something."

Raising an eyebrow, Mira glanced back over her shoulder at the alchemist. "Is that a serious possibility?"

"Probably not." Timeon said with a complete lack of reassuring confidence. "But honestly, it's a half rusted old murder-machine that has been sitting in a daemonic temple for eighty years. If I get the thing working at all it will be something of a miracle, so a few... personality defects wouldn't be entirely impossible."

"I wouldn't normally call 'it wants to kill us all' a _defect_ , Timeon."

The squire raised his eyebrows. "Really? I would. Unless you've got some unexplored suicidal urges that you need to talk about?"

She glared at him, but there was no real heat in her gaze. Honestly, she was just happy that the boy was growing in confidence enough to actually engage in banter like this, rather than just brooding in murderous silence as he had once been inclined to. She could put up with some irreverent backtalk in exchange for that. Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the climb, and had to fight the urge to breath a sigh of relief when it ended with their arrival barely a minute later.

For such a private and relatively simple place, the Sanctum was certainly built with a sense of grandeur in mind. The single chamber stretched some ninety feet across, while the dome roof reached its peak more than fifty feet above her head, so high that the flames on the ground could not properly illuminate the upper reaches, which were thus perpetually swathed in shadow. The altar in the centre of the room might look almost small and insignificant in such a large space, but somehow the bulk of the six-armed daemon leering over it managed to utterly dispel any such considerations from the mind. The whole thing had been carved out of some kind of strange dark green stone that almost seemed to glisten in the flickering torchlight, while the bulk of the altar itself was darkly stained in several places, doubtless as a result of all the blood spilt upon it by mad death priests over the years.

The thoroughly sinister picture was rather spoiled by a single element, that of a large silver seal chained to the altar, the placement suggesting a lock holding shut some great portal. It was thoroughly out of place here, a beacon of purity and goodness surrounded by all the signs and symbols of incredible darkness and evil, and the curious burning sensation Mira had felt near the improvised shrine on the levels below returned in ever-greater force the closer she approached to it. Unlike that minor symbol of purity, though, this one seemed to have an identical effect even on those who were not actively sworn to a dark God, for Grumblejack and the few soldiers with him had chosen to take up positions as far from the altar as possible while they waited for her arrival. The effect on those who lacked a mortal body was even more profound, for both Ezra and the daemons had proven physically incapable of approaching any closer than halfway up the stairs to the sanctum before the divine energy repelled them. Shaking her head, Mira crossed the Sanctum to speak with them, noting the way that they visibly straightened up as she drew near.

"Everything is prepared?" She asked, allowing her satisfaction to show in a small smile as she studied her newest recruits. It had taken some doing to find the half dozen men and women that stood before her now out of the dozens of Orphans she had to choose from, but the effort was paying off. It took a particularly hardened character to do something like this without any real qualms or understanding, but she'd made sure to carefully select only hardened killers without any real religious background for this one, confident that such hardened souls would never flinch at the sort of duties she needed them to perform.

"Yes boss." Grumblejack replied promptly, looking like he wanted to salute or bow but wasn't entirely sure which. "I had the lads do a quick practice run of the song, we've got the water and the eyes are in the statue."

Mira nodded, turning to regard the statue once again. The 'Eyes' in question were three gigantic emeralds, each the size of her fist and as far as she could tell completely flawless, which had been carefully placed into the empty eye-sockets of the daemon's statue. She had initially thought them to be just one more part of the vault's financial treasures, but a closer inspection and a few words with Ezra had revealed the truth. The Eyes of Vetra-Kali, as they were called, were powerful magical items sacred to the Horsemen's dark faith, each having formed a critical part of the original ritual to summon the daemon lord to this plane centuries ago and having held a place of honour in the cult's lore ever since. Their presence here established a kind of metaphysical sympathy between that ritual and this one, helping to set the metaphorical stage to bring the daemon back to not-quite-life.

The water, meanwhile, was actually a byproduct of whatever strange and unholy forces had tainted the stones here over decades of exposure, for it flowed continuously from a small spigot in the side of the altar and was thoroughly corrupted with deathly energy. Since actually touching the silver seal had rapidly proven to be deeply uncomfortable and potentially outright fatal for anyone who tried, so they'd settled for dowsing the thing in unholy water at regular intervals to strip away the sanctified aura that surrounded it.

"And the sacrifice?" She said at last, turning back to face them and not allowing the faint revulsion she felt show in her expression or tone. Grumblejack just nodded wordlessly to the side of the chamber, where a young man in torn and stained clothing lay, bound hand and foot with thick ropes so that he could not escape.

She didn't know who he was, and indeed had gone to some effort to avoid finding out, for fear that knowing such details would only weaken her resolve. All that mattered was that he was a descendent on the Sons of the Pale Horsemen, the inevitable result of keeping a population of any size near to a civilized settlement for any length of time, and that she needed his blood to start the ritual as a result.

"Three eyes to see with, three songs to call him forth, three deaths to slake his thirst." She murmured softly, remembering the strange words that Zikomo had been made to speak in the caverns below. "Blood of the Servant to stay his wrath... I don't know about you guys, but I don't think I'd follow anyone who demanded blood sacrifice as atonement for not managing to kill all of the enemy before I got killed defending them."

One of the cut-throats smiled in a slightly ghoulish fashion. "Well, ma'am, I must say it does my heart good to know that we've signed up with a better quality of dark lord. Compared to some of the other options you're starting to seem downright _reasonable_."

Several of the other new recruits tensed up at that, doubtless afraid that she would react poorly to any hint of disrespect or irreverence from the ranks, but Mira only smiled in response. "Oh, absolutely. I take it you played the market a bit before making such a significant choice, then? How do I stack up?"

The cutters relaxed just slightly, and she realized the problem had likely been some kind of test, one of their number volunteering to take the risk and determine how far they could push it before she grew angry. Said volunteer chuckled now, inclining his head in agreement. "Quite well, actually. You've got your own base with plenty of life's little luxuries, even if the decor is a bit morbid, you pay well and you haven't killed or deliberately humiliated anyone for reasons of petty pride. All in all, there are a lot of worse options out there."

He hesitated, looking towards the giant statue in the middle of the chamber. "Tell the truth, I appreciate you not trying to convert us all into your own little cult as well. I mean you've obviously got some kind of deal going on there, and it damn sure isn't with Mitra, but generally me and the lads don't much care about that if we don't have to. It's good to see you're not including the conversion in the sign-up package, if you see what I mean?"

"Naturally." Mira said mildly, though the cut-throat was experienced enough to pick up on the warning underneath that surface tone. "I serve Asmodeus, largely because he has empowered me and his teachings make a great deal of sense, but I'm not so blind as to assume that everyone would agree with me on that point. That which appeals to me might well repel someone else, so while I would encourage you all to keep an open mind on the topic, I'm hardly going to enforce worship."

Not yet, at least. She had a great many plans, and she still recalled her vow to deliver all of Talingarde to her infernal lord, but attempting to forcibly convert the populace by the sword was inefficient at best, outright counter-productive at worst. Better to take the slow and careful road, especially given her faith's distinctly minority status in this country, and bring her people to the service of Hell by degrees. Everyone had their weaknesses, their own personal foibles which Hell could appeal to in ways that nothing else could, it was just a matter of manipulating the situation so that pursuing that option was the only reasonable course of action left. There would always be some who would never convert, of course, the ones who felt directly opposed to Asmodeus and all that he worked to achieve. Those she would have to dispose of, likely sooner rather than later, but for everyone else... well, she could be patient.

"Still, let's get this over with." She said curtly, moving over to the trussed up form of the sacrifice. "Places, everyone. Begin when ready."

The air in the chamber changed at that, the casual banter and sense of companionship draining away in favour of coldly focussed professionalism. Her agents moved to take up positions throughout the Sanctum, their individual placements having been carefully chosen in advance to focus and magnify the effects of their ritual devotion. When they were in position, each took a moment to verify with their fellows and synchronize their movements, before they started to sing.

Of all of the elements involved in this ritual, most of which had been cobbled together and improvised based on half a dozen disparate clues and the best guesses of those with a little knowledge, the prayers had been the easiest ones to identify. The possessing spirit had mentioned them each by name, and with Ezra's firsthand knowledge and devotion transcribing them had been fairly easy. Mira had been a bit surprised to discover that the ritual prayers that they were going to have to offer three times a day were in fact hymns, but on balance she supposed it made about as much sense as anything else. This one was the _Call to the Void_ , a slow and heartfelt entreaty for Vetra-Kali to heed the devotion of his chosen subjects and return to them from across the veil, the sonorous chanting slowly blending together into a single unified tapestry as the singers fell into the proper rhythm.

Mira had been a little dubious at first, for it had seemed to her that a ritual prayer of devotion would surely require some actual, well, _devotion_ in order to be effective, but it seemed that such was not the case. Ezra had actually noted that not all of the cult's rank and file had truly desired the end of days as foretold in their sacred scriptures, being of considerably saner disposition than their more devoted comrades, but apparently the Horsemen didn't actually care much whether the faith of their subjects was true or if it was just a convenient sham. So long as the faithful brought death in one form or another, the grander the scale the better, nothing else really seemed to truly matter. After all, their stated objective ended with the complete annihilation of the cosmos, faithful and heretic alike, so the sincerity of the prayers probably didn't matter all that much in the long run.

Honestly she wouldn't be entirely disappointed if this whole thing failed to work at all, if only because she could believably use the excuse to destroy Ezra and the daemons on suspicion of treachery. It would probably be rather unpleasant having to report utter failure to Lord Thorn, but she doubted her punishment would be fatal, and it would at least present a viable way to escape the conundrum presented by her conflicting orders and personal beliefs. Still, for that to even be an option she had to at least make a good faith effort at getting this to work in the first place, a requirement that brought her back to her current task.

Gritting her teeth, she seized the young man at her feet by one of the many ropes tied around his torso and began dragging him across the chamber floor, the motion setting his limp head rolling from side to side. The original death priests had apparently taken steps to make sure that their sacrifices were conscious and fully comprehending of their impending deaths before they started with the ritual bloodletting, but a few carefully worded questions backed up by the bonds she'd wrapped around Ezra's mind had confirmed that such measures were unlikely to have any actual impact on the ceremony. Given the choice, then, she'd decided to err on the side of being at least slightly merciful, and had promptly pumped the young man with enough drugs to keep him unconscious for the duration. Honestly she'd probably given him too much, for the state of his breathing and the erratic heartbeat quite likely indicated a man who was never going to wake up from the inflicted overdose, but considering what his fate entailed that wasn't exactly a serious problem.

With a grunt, she hauled her victim up onto the stone surface of the altar, taking a few moments to make sure that he was properly positioned and unlikely to just roll back off again. This close, the aura from the blessed seal scratched at her mind like a persistent hornet, but she focused her will and pushed past it. All around her, the chanting increased in tempo, the strange and twisted words echoing from the stone walls and the curved ceiling in what felt almost like a coordinated effect. It was distracting, but in some ways it also helped, for the obvious time limit helped push her past any last minute hesitation as she picked up the ritual knife from where it lay on the side of the altar. She hefted it for a moment, feeling the weight as she gazed down at the slumbering form of her victim. Then, as the chanting began to reach a horrible crescendo, she went to work.

Flesh tore and veins opened as she butchered her prey, motions filled with the same kind of clinical detachment as those of a butcher working over a trussed hog. The young man tried to struggle, limbs thrashing in instinctive motions even as the drugs kept his conscious mind buried deep, but she was more than strong enough to hold him down until the life faded and the movements began to weaken. Then, making sure not to inflict more damage than she desired, she began to cut deeper into his chest. Blood ran in thick channels across the altar, collecting in small grooves added for this very purpose, but such was merely the prelude to the true objective of this ritual. It took some doing to open the ribs and extract her target without covering herself from head to foot in gore, but she managed it, and it was with only the slightest feeling of distaste that she leant over the stone and placed her prize in the small bowl at the base of the statue.

The heart, somewhat mangled by its forceful removal, glistened wetly in the green light of the torches.

"Come on then, you bastard." Mira muttered quietly to herself, staring up into the three glittering eyes of the statue in front of her. "What's it going to be? You going to answer the call, or do I have to come over there and tear my prize from your cold, dead hands?"

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with awful slowness, the severed heart began to twitch in its bowl. Began to beat once again, though all the blood had been driven out of it already. As the sonorous chanting from behind her began to trail off, a new voice rang out in the Sanctum, a voice of such terrible malevolence she heard at least once of her new followers cry out in agonized horror.

" **Kazara Vo.** "

An instant after that, the room caught fire.

Brilliant emerald flames, roaring with the sound like a thousand wild beasts, burst forth from the ruin of the sacrifice's broken body with enough force to lift Mira off her feet and fling her back across the chamber. She hit the ground and rolled, grunting in pain at the force of the impact, then yelped as she realized that the unholy flames were still clinging to her body. Up and down her limbs they ran, twisting and coiling around her body like living things, spreading with such speed that she barely had time to comprehend what was going on before she was engulfed entirely.

It should have been death - Mira knew her strength and resilience were far beyond those of any normal humans, but even the gifts of Asmodeus should not have been able to prevent her from being burned to a crisp in that brief and terrible second. And yet... there was no pain, no horrible searing agony such as she might expect to feel as the flesh seared from her bones, just a kind of all-pervasive warmth that sank down into her very core and made her feel almost nauseous with the foul sensation of its touch. Her skin was aflame but did not burn, and her long dark hair remained untouched by the hissing tongues than ran up and down each strand. A quick look around confirmed that the same was true for everyone else, for where the corpse on the altar was rapidly burning to ash, all of her allies were standing there entirely unharmed in the heart of the conflagration.

And still the naked heart continued to beat, filling the air with the sound of its rhythm, somehow still audible over the roar of the flames; _ba-dum... ba-dum... ba-dum_...

Mira was slowly starting to climb back to her feet when the world changed again, the stone floor shivering underfoot as the unnatural flames redoubled in intensity, bathing the whole chamber in a wild light fierce enough that she raised one arm in desperate hope of shielding her eyes. On and on the shaking went, until she was convinced that the mountain itself might collapse from the strain of what could only be a true earthquake, the world itself reacting to the horrible taint suffusing the Horn. A grim suspicion began to burn in the back of her mind and, ignoring the piteous screams of fright from her henchmen and the way that Grumblejack was roaring every curse he knew, she dragged herself across the bucking floor to the small balcony on the far side of the chamber. The sanctum didn't boast anything quite as nice as the viewing platform she'd been using on the third floor earlier in the day, but this one was still quite sufficient for her purposes, and she gripped the stone rail as hard as she could, staring out into the night.

It wasn't just the Sanctum that was consumed in unnatural flames, it was the entire Horn, a whole mountain blazing away like the world's largest bonfire. As she watched, the thick layer of greenery that had come to cover the mountains slopes over the years burned away, revealing the glowing abyssal runes carved into the hard rock beneath. She could see the ghostly forms of Ezra and his wraith-spawn flying laps around the lower level, exulting in the malevolent glow that surrounded them, while from the level below she could hear the echoing roars of Hexor and Vexor as they called out to each other in bestial delight. Twisting her head around, she looked up at the sky and found her worst fears confirmed; the flames had woven themselves together into a great pillar and speared towards the heavens, turning the entire Horn into a great glowing beacon that had to be several miles high at the least.

Already the shaking was starting to subside and the flames were slowly dying away, so she doubted it would last more than another couple of minutes, but the damage had been done. Most of her plans had relied upon the idea that the ritual could be conducted in relative secrecy, save for the few divinations performed by Mitran oracles across the land, and she'd been prepared to handle the few teams of investigators and explorers that might result from that. But this...

Growling, Mira turned and strode back inside the Sanctum. She wouldn't be surprised if everyone in Farholde knew where the Horn was after that little display, hell they'd probably seen it in _Ghastenhall_. Not to mention the horrific nightmares and portents of doom that had likely seized every spiritually aware being on the entire fucking island. End result, every last one of her carefully laid plans for secrecy and discretion had been blown wide open, and she could confidently expect some kind of serious response force to be drummed up and sent against her as soon as anyone managed to work out what had happened. The response was inevitable, and she certainly couldn't abandon the mission just because of a single unforeseen complication, so all she was left with now was handling these additional problems as they arose.

As she reached the centre of the chamber she found herself breaking off from such grim thoughts, for there were suddenly rather more pressing matters demanding her attention. Most of her follows had found the green flames to be harmless if a bit disconcerting, but it seemed that the response was not universal. Grumblejack lay curled up on the floor in front of the altar, clutching at his cut and making low moans of confusion and distress. His flesh rippled like water, and she could see _things_ moving beneath the surface, new structures taking form as his body responded to the sudden outpouring of unholy energy.

She watched in silence for a long moment, unsure of how to act in this most unprecedented of circumstances, before the knowledge of precisely what was going on here began to assemble itself in her brain. She'd known Grumblejack was smarter and wiser than the typical ogre, likely as a result of some foreign blood somewhere in his ancestry, but the details of what precisely was responsible had continually escaped her. Now, though, it seemed that the answer was that some kind of infernal being was responsible for the differences, and unless she was very much mistaken exposure to such a concentrated emission of unholy energy had begun to bring that distant ancestry to the fore once again. It looked very painful, but except for a few moans the ogre was bearing the transformation with surprising grace, and despite herself Mira began to smile.

"Well, isn't that interesting..."


	27. Act Seven - The First Prayer Part 2

**One Week later**

The Horn of Abaddon was quite possibly the single most sinister place that Hallack Amon had ever seen, or even heard about. Granted he wasn't exactly the most well travelled soul - indeed, he'd never been more than a few miles outside of Farholde in his entire life - but he was still willing to bet that you could search and length and breadth of Talingarde and never find anywhere quite so positively malevolent as this place.

Next to him, Yorgun tilted his head back and squinted up at the gigantic spire, running one hand through his beard in a contemplative fashion. "Well, this is a mean looking place and no mistake." He grunted, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. "Guess whoever moved in isn't the kind to worry about hiding who or what they are."

The dwarf actually sounded mildly approving of that last part, though Hallack doubted anyone else would have picked up on it. Then again, no one else had known Yorgun quite as long as he had, on account of age and personality alike. The dwarf tended to drive most folks away with his blunt way of speaking and sour attitude towards just about everything, but once you got past that tough outer shell you'd find a soul more noble and dependable than a hundred others, one that would march into the very pits of hell rather than forsake a comrade in need. Hallack had counted himself as just such a comrade for twenty years now, ever since he'd wandered into the dwarf's smithy one day to satisfy a young boy's relentless curiousity, and something told him he'd have good cause to celebrate that dedication before the day was out.

"It is a temple to evil in one of its most vile forms." Sister Marta Dian said in a serious tone, her gaze akin to that of a warrior sizing up a foe as she studied their destination. "I long to cleanse it of the taint that has taken root here, but I fear such a feat would take more strength than the five of us can muster."

It was a discouraging statement on the surface, but Hallack knew better than to assume it would mean that the pious sister had given up. Marta was a member of the Order of Saint Cynthia-Celeste, a militant order of warrior-nuns based out of their abbey in Farholde, all of whom felt called to follow the example of their sainted founder by opposing the forces of evil and protecting the innocent. With Duke Welshire having taken the majority of the army off to war in the east against the bugbear invasion, the Sisters were likely the single most militarily powerful group remaining in the city, and Hallack counted himself very grateful that one of their number had agreed to accompany them here. He'd never been an especially devout man himself, but he respected the power and righteousness of Mitra and his church, and there was little doubt they would need both if they hoped to venture into a place like this and come out alive.

"Too right, sister. You'd need an army to take this place." said James O'Toole, the fourth member of their little band. "And I'm not a soldier, so let's stick to the plan, yeah? We get in, we grab something shiny, we get out again. Everyone goes home rich, and you can find someone else to back your holy crusade."

Marta frowned at her comrade's words, but while Hallack wished he could muster the same level of disapproval he had to be honest with himself. O'Toole might only be here for the money, the large man always willing to break some skulls and show off his strength if it meant there was a good paycheck in it, but the same could be said for him as well. He'd spent years building up his savings, putting away a sizeable portion of his wage each month in hopes of pursuing his dreams to see the great cities of the south before he died, but then his father had passed away and left him with the family debt. Paying what the old man had owed was enough to clear out just about everything he'd ever owned, but it was either that or leave his elderly mother to foot the bill and he could never live with himself if he'd done that. It hadn't stopped him from cursing his father's name, though, as he sat in a tavern and tried to work out what he was going to do with his life.

He'd been sitting in his favourite establishment when the Horn ignited a week ago, and it had taken him one look at the pillar of green fire to realize the opportunity that destiny had presented to him. Old ruins like this were well known to contain all manner of valuable treasure, either left behind by the initial owners or hidden there by criminals and monsters who had discovered it over the years, and a fresh influx of perfectly legal wealth sounded exactly like the sort of thing he needed most right now. Not foolish enough to attempt such a feat on his own, he had broached the idea with those he knew would be reasonably likely to agree and begun purchasing everything they might need for the expedition. Speed was of the essence, that they all agreed, though opinions on precisely why differed, so they'd expedited preparations as much as they could without compromising their own safety. Then, a week to the day after the Horn had first ignited, they'd set off.

"Either way, it should be quite an adventure, yes?" Bianca DeValla, the final member of their little band, ventured with a cheerful smile. The half-elven lass was the only one of them that had approached Hallack rather than the other way around, since she'd been performing in the tavern where they were making their plans and had happened to overhear. He hadn't been entirely sure why she'd been quite so enthusiastic about participating, for unlike the rest of them she didn't have anything in the way of professional combat training to rely on if things should go bad, but Hallack had been more than willing to give Bianca a spot on the team anyway. She had a bard's magic, the knack of using music to bolster her companions and enchant her foes, and magic of any kind was something well worth having on your side in just about any kind of situation he could think of.

It hadn't taken him long to piece together the real reason the beautiful woman was so keen on accompanying him on this adventure, though. Hallack had never counted himself as being particularly perceptive when it came to the fairer sex, but even he wasn't quite so dense as to miss all of the sidelong looks and coy smiles the bard gave him whenever they were in the same room together. Yorgun's habit of sniggering whenever he saw her acting like that helped, as did the fierce blush that Bianca started sporting whenever he paid her more attention than normal, but he liked to think he would have worked it out before too long in any case. No, all he had to think about now was what exactly he was going to do about it. He certainly had no problem with the notion of returning that affection, far from it, but right now he was effectively a penniless sell-sword dreaming of better days. Pride demanded that he have something more to offer before he returned Bianca's interest, something worthy of such a beautiful and intelligent woman that would serve to demonstrate his sincerity. Perhaps he could invite her to come visit the south with him after they'd divided up their spoils...

Still, first they had to actually _obtain_ said spoils, a task that would not be accomplished by standing around here at the edge of the forest. So with a brisk nod Hallack stowed such concerns for later review, gesturing for his companions to follow him, and set off at a brisk trot for the caverns at the base of the Horn. Yorgun had apparently been here before, and he'd recommended the caves as their destination, as the Boggards that lived there were reputed to frequently raid caravans and merchant barges, carrying away anything even slightly valuable-looking to store in the depths of their lair. Culling a few frog-men would seem like the best way to obtain a decent amount of treasure, then, while also helping to preemptively protect their neighbours who might otherwise fall prey to such raids in the future.

They were halfway across the clearing when everything started to go wrong.

The first sign that they were under attack came when the light vanished. In the shadow of the Horn the natural light of the sun seemed to be muted and obscured no matter the time of day, but the eerie green glow that surrounded the mountain had provided more than adequate illumination to replace it. Until, in the blink of an eye, it wasn't. A blanket of shadow fell across the small group and the land for thirty paces in all directions, draining the colour and dulling sharp lines in ways that tricked the eye. Cursing, Hallack went for his sword, knowing that he would be desperately vulnerable in the long moments until his eyes adjusted to the sudden gloom. He scanned the mountainside for archers and squinted into the mouth of the caverns ahead, trying to determine where the enemy would strike at them from and what form that harm would take.

The one thing he most definitely did _not_ expect was for an armour-plated ogre to fall out of the sky, burning like a meteor and carrying a sword the size of a grown man.

Sister Dian was the first to die. She was fumbling in the gloom for the holy symbol around her neck, doubtless intending to invoke Mitra's blessings upon her companions and force away the unnatural darkness that fouled their senses, and that meant that she was looking down when the ogre descended upon her from on high. The sword, carrying with it all the momentum of an ogre's mass and a long fall, did not so much cleave through her as crush her flat. The exact details of the sight were obscured by the gloom, but the sounds were all too clear, and in that instant Hallack knew he had led these good men and women to their deaths.

The ground shook with the force of the Ogre's landing, the monstrous humanoid forced into a crouch by the speed with which it had struck the earth yet still towering over them all. The shadows robbed it of definition, rendering it little more than a large mass of flesh and metal in the general shape of a man, but there was no mistaking the glittering malice that shone in its eyes. A maw large enough to swallow a man whole opened wide, and with the terrible bass roar came the waft of old carrion that swept over them like a wave.

They might have broken in that instant, their fragile unity shattered by the unexpected assault and grisly demise of their comrade, were it not for Yorgun the Smith. The Dwarf had lived in human lands all of his life, as had most of his kin, but he still recalled the stories his parents told of the ogres and their foul ways, of the innumerable and hideous crimes they committed upon the Dwarven people. Letting out a fierce below of his own, the dwarf hefted his oversized hammer and charged in, his courage and example shaking the rest of them out of their momentary stupor.

Hallack in from the right while O'Toole came in from the left, the two of them seeking to work with Yorgun to flank and surround their opponent, while Bianca hung back and began to mutter the words of a spell. It was an example of cooperation and teamwork that would have done Hallack's old instructors proud, a living testament to the ability of the civilized folk to set aside their differences and crush any amount of unthinking savagery beneath them. Unfortunately, such stirring lessons rather relied on the enemy being rather less _intelligent_ than it suddenly proved to be.

The great sword came up again, swinging around in a deadly arc that forced Hallack to check his advance or find himself cut clean in two. Yorgun was short enough to duck underneath the blade itself, but in this situation the size of his hammer worked against him, and he found his charging swing knocked aside in a shower of sparks before it could strike home. O'Toole seized the opening presented, darting in to slam a single strong blow into their opponent's face, and Hallack felt a brief moment of hope. He'd seen the brawler perform at the country fairs, seen him knock out a bull with a strike such as that - surely it should at least buy them an opportunity?

The ogre simply grinned, revealing far too many teeth, and spat a thin trail of blood on the floor in blatant challenge. Growling, O'Toole pressed the assault, hammering blow after blow into his opponent's face and torso, aiming for the vulnerable areas unprotected by the heavy metal armour the beast wore and relying on his proximity and his allies to protect him from the gigantic sword. Assessing the situation in an instant, Hallack stepped forwards to do his part, locking his sword against the ogre's in an attempt to keep it down just long enough for the others to do their work.

As O'Toole wound up for another punch, however, the ogre simply turned to face him and opened that terrible maw. Too committed to the onslaught and caught in the trap of assuming his enemy held only one weapon, the brawler did not spot the trap until it was too late. His arm lashed out and the enemy bit down, tearing muscle asunder between his jagged teeth and drawing a roar of pain. That roar became a high-pitched wail as neck muscles bulged and the ogre turned on the spot, using its leverage and superior mass to fling O'Toole bodily through the air, releasing the tattered remains of his arm at the last second. The brawler's body flew across the clearing and hit the ground in a loose tangle of limbs, all conscious thought washed away beneath shock and indescribable agony.

With its back turned to them, Hallack could now make out the answer to how their enemy had come to descend upon them from such an unexpected angle. A pair of wings, great leathery things unlike those of any natural life, sprouted from just beneath the beast's shoulders, while here and there its thick skin was marred with a thin layer of glossy scales. This was not merely a simple ogre, such as the ones that Hallack had fought during his time on the wall, but some kind of twisted half-breed given unholy powers by the tainted energies in its blood. Still, half-fiend or not, it had still exposed it's back to them, and that was not an opportunity that they were going to pass up.

Coordinating their movements with the ease of comrades who had fought together many times before, man and dwarf launched themselves at their opponent. The blade in Hallack's hand had belonged to his father once, perhaps the only thing of worth that the old man had ever left him, while Yorgun's hammer was an heirloom of his people, passed down through the generations in a line unbroken until the present day. Both were enchanted, and overpowered the unnatural resilience of their foe's hide with ease, leaving bleeding wounds and massive bruises all across the beast's flank. The ogre tried to turn to face them, aiming to bring its sword back into play, but they kept moving with it and stayed inside the reach of its oversized weapon, hacking and hammering with the vengeful fury of those who have seen their sworn companions butchered before their eyes.

Then the ogre growled an oath, some strange and unknown phrase in one of many tongues of the fiends. Scarcely had the words passed its jagged fangs that a cloud of darkness followed, of a far thicker and fouler nature than the one with which it had opened the fight. Hallack slashed at it with his sword, but the cloud merely flowed around his blade and washed over him like a tide, sinking in through his pores and filling his entire body with pain and nausea. He staggered, coughing up blood as whatever fiendish magic his opponent had unleashed tore its way through his insides, and he was surprised to see Yorgun suffering just as much. It could not be poison, then, for the dwarf's resistance to such things bordered on the legendary, but what...

Desperate, he raised sword and shield alike in an attempt to defend himself, his vision swimming and his gut twisting beneath his skin. He wanted to throw up, but lowering his guard in such a fashion at a time like this was a death sentence in all but name. As it was there was little he could do to stop the ogre from striking him with one of its meaty fists, and though his shield saved him from broken bones the sheer strength behind the blow was still enough to lift him from his feet and send him flying back through the air. He hit the ground and rolled, trying to regain his feet and then collapsing again as the world seemed to tip alarmingly beneath him.

It was at that point that the ogre began to laugh, a harsh and mocking sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep within its massive chest. Snarling with rage and shame, Hallack started to lever himself to his feet once again, only to blink in surprise as the ogre toppled over onto its side. Meaty fists beat at the ground as the ogre laughed, rolling back and forth in the muddy grasp as spasms of unchecked mirth wracked its system. He was still trying to work out what was going on when Bianca materialized out of the gloom at his side, her beautiful face taut with worry.

"Come on, that'll only stop him for a few moments. We have to get out of here." She said in an urgent tone, straining her muscles as she helped to haul him back to his feet.

"What? No." Hallack said, shaking his head in an instinctive motion he regretted a moment later as the nausea swelled once more. "We have to seize our chance, kill it before it can recover..."

"There's no time!" Bianca cried desperately, pointing in the direction of the Horn. "Look!"

Hallack followed her gestures with his gaze, and felt a lead weight settle in the depths of his gut. Streaming out of the caverns under the Horn were the rest of the defenders, dozens of angry looking Boggards clutching vicious looking spears in their flabby hands as they bounded forwards in great leaping arcs. Too many to fight, especially all at once while they were injured and with casualties, even before you factored in the mutated ogre and it's strange magical abilities. Somewhere deep inside his heart, Hallack began to realize just how horribly mistaken he'd been. Such arrogance, to assume that they could just walk in and steal the treasures from this place without any consequences, trusting in their own courage and untested skill to see them past defenses which they knew nothing about. He had thought them equal to this task, and others had paid for it... all he could do now was salvage as much as they could.

"Yorgun!" He called to the dwarf, knowing by the grim look in his friend's eye that the same thoughts and regrets were preying on him right now. "We have to go!"

For a moment he thought that the smith's infamous stubbornness would see him insist upon staying, even at the cost of his life and without any hope of victory, but after a moment's pause the dwarf nodded in reluctant agreement and turned to run. Eyes burning with unshed tears, Hallack followed him, fleeing back into the dark jungle as fast as his legs could carry him.

Behind them, the sound of the ogre's laughter filled the air.


	28. Act Seven - Treya's Raiders

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty Six

Standing on the balcony with a glass of fine wine in one hand, studying the gently swirling crowds of dignitaries and people of interest below, Mira could not help but smile. It never ceased to amaze her how many layers of needless protocol and etiquette the upper levels of society managed to wrap themselves in, how ruthlessly they punished deviations from the accepted way of doing things, especially in contrast to the wider populace that surrounded them.

Last week, one of her lieutenants - a purely informal rank inherited from the way that the Orphans had organized themselves before being folded into her ever-growing organization - had chosen to celebrate the birth date of one of the soldiers under her command. The squad had traded spots on the duty roster to give the lucky man the day off, covered all of his drinks at the Death's Head tavern on the first floor of the Horn and brought in a couple of whores from Drownington. No extensive planning needed, no formal celebration beyond a few rounds of cheers and general congratulations and only a minor expense that Mira had been happy to recompense out of the general funds in the interests of morale. The soldier in question had thoroughly enjoyed himself, and aside from a bit of a hangover the next day that was the end of it.

By contrast, Baron Vandermir's birthday celebrations apparently involved a level of preparation and financial expenditure that Mira would normally equate with a major military operation. Carefully worded invitations had been inscribed on cards with gilded edges and hand-delivered by liveried servants to those on a carefully selected guest list, a duty which had doubtless been rather less enjoyable for the poor fool chosen to deliver hers to the Horn of Abaddon in the depths of the Caer Byr. Only those of particular refinement and importance had been invited to attend, and while she hadn't been able to view the guest list Mira was fairly certain it would have revealed a great deal about the political makeup of Farholde and the surrounding territories. Judging by how she remembered such things going in the past, being invited to a function such as this was a sure fire way to mark your own ascension to political or financial prominence, while being omitted from the guest list entirely could easily range from a mild snub to a deadly insult. Men had died over a missed dinner invitation in the past, a fact which never failed to amuse and astound her whenever she considered it.

Then of course there was the food. The Baron had opened the lower floor of his mansion to his guests for the duration of the party, and scattered throughout the various rooms were numerous tables heavily laden with all manner of fine foods served on beautifully decorated plates, far more than a group of this size could ever be expected to eat in the course of a single night. Mira doubted that the Baron intended for the rest of it to go to waste, for he was not a man much given to such inefficient habits. No, it would probably be eaten by his servants and others in his employ, or else transported to the orphanage that he funded as a means of bolstering loyalty and positive feelings among those who served him or one day would. With the food came the wine, several casks of it having been delivered to the mansion over the previous few weeks, all of it of rare and excellent vintage and transported at great expense from the more cosmopolitan territories far to the south.

Events such as this were generally a means for those who threw them to advertise their wealth and status with varying degrees of subtlety, and with the Duke gone off to war in the east the Baron was sparing absolutely no expense in establishing himself as the most important man in town. People flocked to their superiors in times of strife and confusion, seeking to reinforce their own positions through alliance with those who possessed similar strength and stability, and doubtless many of the conversations currently taking place revolved around such things right now. Not everyone here had enough to offer someone like Baron Vandermir to justify a true relationship, but they could always find at least a few likely partners among their fellow guests, as well as identifying those most likely to set themselves up as rivals if given the chance. It was a delicate game, one conducted with careful diplomacy and veiled threats alike, and honestly Mira found the whole prospect irritating enough to spark a minor headache.

"It's funny, don't you think?" Elise said, her foreign accent very much out of place as she glided up to join Mira at the railing and look down over the crowds below. "Just how blind they all are. They play their little games, and not one of them realizes the truth of what is happening less than an hour's ride from their walls."

The witch had dressed up for the occasion, clad in a long white dress with a heavy fur mantle draped over her shoulders. It was a style of fashion that had never really taken off in Talingarde, thus serving to identify the owner as a foreigner who chose to deliberately flaunt that fact. Mira had been somewhat surprised to note that her fellow agent had merited an invitation in the first place, but she at least had the advantage of knowing who and what Elise was. The dignitaries below had no such information, and doubtless many of them were desperately trying to identify who this outsider was and what she had done to merit an invitation to such an exclusive gathering.

"Not all of them." Mira returned, the folds of her deep crimson gown shifting slightly as she raised her wine and took a sip. "The good Sir Valin seems quite preoccupied."

Elise followed her gaze down to the guest in question, smiling faintly as she found him. The only man present who was not currently engaged in carefully jockeying for political or social advantage, the acting commander of Fort Hamorhall had chosen to attend in his military dress uniform, the glitter of well-earned medals on his breast doing as much to mark him as a veteran soldier as the vicious looking scar across an otherwise handsome face. He was currently standing with his back to the wall and his eyes on the crowd, expression and posture both indicating a desire for solitude that dissuaded his fellow guests from trying to approach.

There were always a few like him at any party, the ones who had only been invited so as to avoid insult and who only intended to stick around long enough to discharge the duties of common politeness before making their excuses and leaving. In fairness, though, the acting commander had more reason than most for being uncomfortable in a place like this, for his duties were doubtlessly weighing heavy on the mind. His garrison had been stripped to the bone by the demands of the war effort and his duties expanded to cover those of other forces pulled away to confront the Fire-Axe, all of which had left him thoroughly overworked and entirely unable to mount any kind of effective response to the giant glowing doom-mountain that had suddenly appeared in his metaphorical back yard.

Mira knew all of this because she had taken great effort to study the young officer over the past few weeks. It had been almost two months now since the ritual in the Horn had begun, and while there had been a few complications - such as a pair of celestial hounds that had attacked the fortress just a couple of weeks ago and very nearly managed to eat several of her soldiers - by and large things were proceeding nicely. Between the Boggards and the forces she had slowly gathered to herself from the Baron's own agents and the various other toughs and lowlifes to be found in Farholde she had enough strength to mount an effective defense of the mountain against just about anything that might choose to attack, so she had begun turning her attention to the other resources she might well need in the days to come.

Sir Valin Darian was one of those resources, for it was a relatively well known fact around town that he was directly descended from the Victor himself, and as such was the nearest viable candidate for the third sacrifice. She'd been working on developing a plan to extract him from the depths of his fortress, ideally one that did not involve him dying in valiant defense of his homeland, and while she was reasonably sure she could pull it off she'd elected to leave him where he was for the time being. The knight was unlikely to leave Hamorhall any time soon, so kidnapping him now just meant that her forces had to find some way of holding him for the five or so months remaining before his appointed date with a sacrificial knife. Needless to say Mira knew all too well that such an accomplishment was far from certain, and she had no intention of botching this whole operation by getting greedy and moving sooner than she absolutely had to.

"Well, he does have a lot on his mind." Elise commented thoughtfully, too much of a professional to look directly at their target but able to keep tabs on him all the same. "Farholde is under his watch at the moment, after all, and I imagine more than a few people think he hasn't exactly been doing a fantastic job of it."

"Oh yes. I understand the town has become a dangerous place as of late, especially for those people who make the unwise decision to advertise their intention of visiting the Horn." Mira said dryly, glancing sideways at her companion. "What was it the last lot called themselves?"

"'Brendan's Breakers', I believe." The witch responded with a coy smile. "Quite a lively bunch, all things considered, prone to making bold declarations and pledges of smiting evil in the defense of the innocent. Most unfortunate what happened to them. You know, I hear the tavern they were staying in is in danger of going out of business as well - they've had some difficulty getting the blood stains out, and there aren't many patrons willing to tolerate that kind of atmosphere."

"Ah yes, that was it." Mira said quietly, turning the glass of wine in her hand and watching the dark red liquid ripple gently with the motion. "Well, I appreciate the assistance, but I might question your methods. I thought the plan was for such unfortunate events to look like accidents where possible, and yet a rather disturbing number of young women seem to be turning up without their intestines in recent weeks."

"A few men as well, and they're not all young. It's just that kind seem to draw more attention." Elise corrected with a smile that was far too soft and gentle for the subject at hand. "What can I say? Titus is a very [i]pious[/i] man, and he seems to believe that blood is the best way to offer praise to the god you share. Since said deity sees fit to respond to the offerings with blessings of divine magic I choose not to question it, but we can't have the bodies all turning up with pentagrams carved into their torsos now can we? Better to remove such evidence altogether."

Mira frowned, keeping the majority of her feelings away from her face but unable to entirely mask her disapproval. She'd read the same holy texts that Titus had, and while she couldn't deny that Asmodeus was known to approve of blood sacrifice she still didn't approve of the cleric's chosen methods. A true sacrifice would be something of symbolic value, ideally an enemy of the faith dominated through means magical or mundane into accepting their death and slain with a ruby blade. To simply snatch likely victims off the street and carve them open in a back alley without thought for proper procedure or disposal of the bodies was... _inelegant_ at best. She highly doubted that Asmodeus would withdraw his favour from the priest if the sacrifices were to stop, which in turn suggested that the constantly smiling rogue was simply using his faith as an excuse to indulge certain more murderous and unwholesome urges.

If he was under her command she would have forced him to stop, but while she had overall authority on this mission Titus was still undeniably Elise's agent, and she could easily ignore or countermand any such instruction. Giving an order she knew would not be obeyed would only diminish her own authority and create problems. Still, maybe she could have some of her own men keep an eye on the dark priest for a time and physically intervene if he tried this sort of thing again. The overwhelming majority of them were from Farholde, and she'd be surprised if any of them were happy with the idea of a lunatic killer preying on their neighbours. As always, concerns to be addressed at a later date.

"So long as it does not draw more attention in the long run." She said calmly, hiding her doubts and the first elements of a plan beneath a blank expression. "You will of course keep me updated on any further developments?"

"Of course." Elise said with a sincerity so pure that it almost had to be faked. "I believe there's a group of Iraen planning to gather in town before too long - the first members arrived yesterday. We'll take care of it, while you focus on... whatever it is you're doing."

Mira smiled thinly at that last comment. It was a point of contention between them, for while Elise knew the broad outline of their mission and intended goals, Mira had long since decided that there was no need to share the specifics of the individual steps leading to that destination. Part of her decision was based on simple practicality, for sharing the full details of the ritual with the witch gained them nothing and only opened up more avenues by which a dangerous leak could occur, but more than a little bit of it was simple spite. She liked and respected Elise, to a degree, but there was no denying that their relationship was based in large part on mutual antagonism. They played their little games, taunting one another with secrets withheld and pointed comments that fell just short of being outright insults, each watching the other intently for the first sign of escalation. True cooperation would probably be a superior choice, but they weren't really allies so much as rivals who happened to be on the same team, and that coloured all of their interactions.

"Good to hear." She said mildly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to start working on the less enjoyable aspects of this little get-together. Namely, networking. You might want to think of doing something similar."

The witch just smiled, but made no move to join her, a decision which confirmed one of Mira's outstanding suspicions. Elise had been in town for months now, and she'd been spending much of that time setting up a network of spies and contacts that could provide all kinds of useful information and resources for their use. Chances were she'd already made overtures to several of these people and had met with success in at least a few cases, if only because the rich and influential were always willing to gain access to new and interesting sources of information to support their own intrigues. That would probably have poisoned the metaphorical well against any other attempts to establish similar relationships, except for the few blind fools willing to strike up arrangements with two potentially competing organizations, but fortunately Mira had her own avenue of approach to work with here.

Liveried servants at the bottom of all of the staircases had served as a polite notice to all of the guests that the upper levels were generally off limits, the party confined to the lower levels where everyone could mingle together and enjoy those refreshments and entertainments provided. It hadn't taken long for the unspoken message to sink in on top of that; those who [i]were[/i] invited to the upper levels were the ones that the Baron held in particular favour, who commanded enough resources and influence to be worth meeting privately in the library or office. By establishing herself on the upper balcony, Mira had given silent notice to anyone who was watching that she commanded just such a level of professional regard from their host, despite the fact that no one here would have seen her before today. That made her a person of interest, and more than a few of them would be desperately trying to work out what kind of service or resource it was that she proved which was so rare and valuable. The keenest among them would have already deduced the answer - violence.

Her dark red dress put one in the mind of spilled blood, and the lack of sleeves exposed her lean and well-muscled arms, complete with those few scars which had lingered even in the fact of magical healing. That made her a dangerous person, evidently a veteran warrior unattached to the standing military and likely in command of several more of similar skill, while her presence at such an exclusive gathering (and her command of the etiquette necessary to not make an utter fool of herself while here) marked her as someone with sophistication and intelligence. Few here would be willing to engage the services of a lowborn thug, no matter how dangerous such an individual might be, but a highborn professional of evident means and experience? One skilled and discrete enough to attain the quasi-public endorsement of Arkov Vandermir? That was something entirely different, and while only the most ruthless would seek the outright elimination of their rivals, only the most idealistic of fools would discard the value of a mysteriously incinerated warehouse or a detachment of guards to ward against the same.

It was a dry and thoroughly irritating task, but a necessary one all the same. By the time she left Farholde again she intended to have this entire town and surrounding region firmly under control, whether that meant directly through her own forces or via a proxy ruler like the Baron. That meant connections, it meant resources, and it meant people willing to listen and work with you despite what the rest of the world said they should do, all of which could be incredibly useful in the future. And on the off-chance that it just turned out to be completely irrelevant, well, it was always good to stay in practice.

With a sigh, Mira drained the rest of her wine, handed the empty glass to a servant and went to work.

-/-

 **One Week Later**

The problem with fighting a sorceress was that you never really knew what they were capable of until they did it. The term was broad to the point of being all but useless, generally used to indicate anyone who could wield arcane powers without any kind of formal training, whether that was by forging strange pacts with infernal beings or simply inheriting a degree of inhuman power through an unusual bloodline. Some sorcerers could only produce a few coloured lights to entertain children, while others were capable of melting entire military divisions to slag, and it was beginning to look distressingly like Treya DeMarco was one of the latter variety.

Biting back a growl of rage and frustration, Mira stalked through the corridors of the Horn, tracking the progress of this latest group of adventurers by the carnage they had left in their wake. Treya's Raiders were, it seemed, a much more mercenary band that the would-be heroes that had previously decided to try their luck against the Horn, being driven entirely by the prospect of large sums of gold and other treasure than any number of more traditional heroic motivations. They were experienced, professional and as was becoming rapidly apparent, knew exactly what they were doing. Mira had been rather hoping that the manned watch-stations at the entrance to each level would suffice to repel or at least slow the invaders down, but it seemed that Miss DeMarco had simply waved her hand and annihilated everything inside those chambers in a searing inferno of magically conjured flames, only then proceeding to walk right on past and deeper into the Horn.

It had most assuredly not helped that she had set up her intended ambush for the arriving band near the entrance to the third floor, only to see them stroll casually into the _second_ level while she and her forces were badly out of place. It was an irritating reminder about the limitations of intelligence, for while Elise's spies had managed to obtain a reasonable amount of information on the group before they set off they had only been able to offer an educated guess about their intended course of action upon arrival. There were any number of potential reasons as to why that speculation could have been wrong, from the eavesdropper mishearing them to a simple change of plans once the raiders got close enough to actually take a look at their destination, and none of them were making her feel any better about the way in which her defenses had been so thoroughly broken apart in such a limited span of time.

Still, it wasn't entirely bad news. By eliminating the guardhouses on the second level, the raiders had allowed themselves to become complacent and assume that they had overcome the initial defenses, which in turn had left one of their member vulnerable to the sudden activation of the repaired pit trap in that entry tunnel. Posca the Merchant, as he apparently styled himself, had been a rather large dwarf who usually took a supporting role in combat and had opted to clad himself in a heavy set of full plate before invading the Horn. All of which were precisely the wrong things to be when the floor opened up underfoot and dropped you down a fifty foot shaft onto a bed of spikes. That said spikes had been poisoned and then positioned above a basin full of acid harvested from the lower caverns had simply been overkill at that point, but Mira was personally of the opinion that it was better to be sure of these things rather than leaving them to the whims of fate and good luck, which was why she had sent several of her soldiers carrying polearms to finish the job from the far side of the bars around the converted cell.

That left the Raiders with three surviving members, all of whom were apparently willing to continue their mission rather than retreat in the face of a lost comrade. Then again, perhaps it was simply a matter of sunk costs - if they turned around and left without so much as a copper piece after that it would probably feel like they were betraying their comrade's memory, and that was the sort of emotional attachment that could drive even treasure-seeking mercenaries to unwise courses of action. Either way, she still had the survivors to deal with - a sorceress, a break and entry specialist and what sounded like a very large man who hit things with a sword for a living. Judging by the sounds she could hear echoing through the corridors they were just ahead, which would place them in the temple and thus entirely too close to the staircase to the Sanctum for her liking.

"Hexor, Vexor, to me." She said curtly, touching the amulets hanging from around her neck to imbue the command with irresistible force. Sure enough, both of the daemons emerged from the empty air around her a heartbeat later, their brutal forms trailing small wisps of strange energy as whatever foul realm they travelled through released its hold. They fell into step on either side of her without the need for further instruction, like the world's most dangerous bodyguards, and she smiled fiercely as she reached the doors to the temple and forced them open with a single shove.

" **Stop setting fire to my stuff!** "

It was not perhaps the most dramatic of declarations she could have used to signal her arrival at the impromptu battlefield, but it did the job well enough, in that it was distinctive enough to draw the eye of everybody involved and made them hesitate for just long enough to let her properly assess the situation. The adventuring team was currently locked in battle with half a dozen of her men, all of them members of a minor mercenary band that were honestly little more than leg-breakers for hire by any number of criminal gangs. As might be expected, the low-quality thugs were not doing particularly well in combat with veteran adventurers, but they'd survived long enough for her to catch up and that was just going to have to be good enough.

The leader of the raiders was immediately obvious, for Treya DeMarco was another foreigner who deliberately opted to dress in the style of her homeland rather than conform to the local fashions, and was therefore almost certainly the only person for miles around wearing a collection of red silk veils. Mira honestly had no idea what would drive someone to wear something so revealing in public, especially in a land where the majority of the time the temperature could best be described as uncomfortably chill, but perhaps the foreigner's gift for fire magic helped to ward her against such mundane concerns. It certainly made her more than a match for the thug confronting her, who was currently on his knees trying to muster the breath to scream while clutching the charred slab of meat that had originally been his stomach.

Beyond the sorceress was a man dressed in dark leather armour, who was currently wielding a pair of curved daggers with an almost artistic level of expertise as he carved his way through the ranks of those who opposed him. That would be Taskar Twelve-Knives, then, the aforementioned specialist at breaking into places like this and making off with the valuables. He certainly seemed competent enough, and Mira had to admit she was vaguely surprised by the level of professionalism displayed by someone who bore the obvious marks of a partially orcish ancestry on his heavy brow and jutting tusks. She'd met a few half-orcs in her time, and most of them generally possessed the sort of temper that would make it difficult to hold any job relying on stealth and subtlety, but presumably the rule was not universal. The thief probably had quite an interesting story or two in his past, but unfortunately she had no time to hear them, since he'd made the fatal mistake of trying to steal _her_ possessions.

Finally, there was Hassan, a large humanoid with ruddy red skin and a head of brilliant orange hair that looked oddly like immobile flame. He presumably had some manner of elemental blood in his ancestry, and boasted a truly impressive physique that he put to work wielding a large falchion with a butcher's bloody efficiency. He was the first one to react to her arrival, turning away from the rapidly retreating thug he had been engaged with and hurling himself along the length of the temple to engage her and her daemons, roaring in wordless rage as he went. Closer, she could see the faint gleam of runes carved into the metal of his blade, tell-tale hints of an enchanted weapon aimed at allowing him to overcome whatever strange guardians might be standing between him and the objective of the raid. On most days Mira would have been more than happy to engage the warrior in a duel, pitting her divinely granted strength and speed against his inherited supernatural qualities, but right now the sight of so many of her soldiers maimed and killed by a bunch of would-be thieves had put her in an incredibly bad mood. So rather than stepping forwards and locking blades with the giant, she simply gestured to Vexor and ignored the skin-crawling sensation of the daemon's magic.

Scarcely five feet from her, Hassan froze in place, his limbs locking into sudden immobility even as the suffocating aura of fiendish spellcraft cancelled his momentum and held him upright. It was a potent form of magic, but not an especially uncommon one, and Mira did not doubt that the sorceress possessed some means of countering the effect if given even a moment to work. Since allowing her that time would entirely defeat the point of paralysing the warrior in the first place, Mira drew her sword and brought it swinging across in a two-handed lateral blow without breaking stride. Then, as Hassan's severed head struck the floor with a wet _squelch_ , she flicked the blood from her sword and continued advancing.

At the sight of the execution, the two surviving members of the raiders displayed markedly different reactions. Taskar took a long look at the menacing forms of the oncoming enemies, glanced around as though remembering how far he was from the nearest exit, then held his blades in a purely defensive posture and began backing away. Treya DeMarco screamed in rage and threw a tiny glowing pebble of orange light at the women who had murdered her comrade. Mira had just enough time to identify the spell before the fireball detonated at her feet and the world turned to fire.

Given the sheer amount of energy unleashed by the magic, most people would expect little more than ashes to be left behind by anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in such proximity to the original point of detonation. Spells such as this were frequently used to cut down entire formations of fully armoured Knights, all their training and equipment rendered utterly useless in the face of raw elemental power, and indeed it was such indiscriminate power that gave rise to much of Talingarde's prejudice against the wielders of arcane magic in the first place. Few men were willing to accept that all of their skill and training could count for absolutely nothing if they were to come up against someone with the good fortune to be born with a gift for magecraft, so they went out of their way to suppress and restrict the study of such power wherever they could.

Mira, however, was no ordinary knight. There had been a time when such an explosion would have meant her death, where the roaring maelstrom of heat and light would have torn her limb from limb and scattered her ashes across the ground, but much had changed since those days. She had pledged her loyalty to Asmodeus and been granted the gift of his infernal power, a dark wellspring of endless energy that infused her soul and elevated her physical form far beyond its mortal limits. The flames hurt, yes, seared her flesh and made her armour glow with heat, but they were not even nearly strong enough to take her life. So as the magic faded and the boiling flames twisted away into the air, Mira kept walking, striding out of the inferno without so much as slowing down. It was a display meant to reassure her allies as much as it was to intimidate her enemies, and judging by the awe-struck expressions on the faces of her surviving thugs it had worked wonderfully. Still, no sense in putting her resilience to the test by subjecting herself to further spells, so with a dismissive gesture she sent Hexor and Vexor surging forwards towards their new prey.

Treya DeMarco was a tough, experienced and sensible woman with an immense amount of magical power at her disposal, but there were limits to what even such an exceptional individual could handle. Hexor and Vexor were daemons, effectively death itself given physical form, and they boasted strength and speed far beyond that of any mortal creature. At the end of the day, a physical confrontation between two bear-like monstrosities of personified murder and a lone woman dressed in revealing silk could only be expected to end up one, and once one of those wickedly sharp claws found its way across the woman's exposed stomach and bloodily disemboweled her Mira stopped paying attention to the details. Instead, she turned her attention to the one surviving member of the Raiders, who was looking more than a little sick.

"Well, that's unfortunate." Taskar Twelve-Knives said in a display of admirable professionalism, considering what was currently happening to his former boss just a few meters away. "I don't suppose it matters if I say there was nothing personal? I was hired for a job, and since I can't really expect to get paid for that now I'd be willing to work for you instead, but if that's going to be your answer I think I'd rather just end it now..."

"An interesting idea." Mira said with a neutral expression on her face, raising her voice just a bit so she could be heard over the increasingly-incoherent screaming from behind her. "You don't have a problem working for someone like me? Any moral objections to working for someone living in an evil temple owned by a death-cult?"

"...normally I'd charge extra." Taskar said slowly, his eyes firmly fixed on her and nothing else. "Considering the situation, and the whole 'we were just enemies' thing, I'd be willing to work on credit?"

Which seemed to be a marvelously restrained way of saying 'oh god please don't kill me'. Mira had to admire the half-orc's composure, considering that the sounds from behind her had now progressed from the tearing of flesh to what sounded rather like the crunching of bone without any impact on Treya's ability to scream. She could make good use of someone that self-controlled, and there were good reasons for letting a former enemy join her - if she killed everyone who opposed her indiscriminately, after all, no one who opposed her would ever be willing to stop doing so. Not that she would be quite so foolish as to put the man in any position of authority or anywhere he might have access to potentially important secrets for quite some time, of course, but he seemed sensible enough to understand the need for such precautions.

Besides, he'd already received a rather blunt example of what happened to those who crossed her, and no one with any kind of survival instinct would be willing to invite that kind of attention.

"That seems reasonable." She said lightly, as behind her the screaming finally stopped. "Let's discuss this elsewhere, and you can explain to me just what kind of skills you'd bring to the team. Start with where you got your information about this place."

She glanced over at her surviving guards, and made a vague gesture in the direction of the daemons. "And someone clean that up."

-/-

Three weeks later, she received her next missive from Zadaria.

 _Silver Dragon sighted over Farholde, current position unknown. Be wary - he may be on his way to the Horn._

 _\- Z_


	29. Act Seven - Harkon's Hands

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty Seven

As he made his way through the streets of Farholde, Titus Rakburn could not help but appreciate the atmosphere. It was rare to find a population held so perfectly in the grasp between two conflicting emotions, and the ambiance it lent to this sordid little backwater town was simply exquisite.

The dominant emotion, the one which had been laying over the town for some time now, was somewhere between fear and absolute despair. Like the best malaises, it was fed by multiple sources, each of which magnified and reinforced the others without presenting a single distinct enemy that could be focused upon. It had started with the looming threat of war, for the prospect of a violent death and the destruction of all that one knew had always brought fear to the masses who lived under its shadow. Farholde had for decades relied upon the comforting bulk of the Watch Fortress Hamorhall to reassure the populace whenever the threat of monsters from the north became exceptionally apparent, but with the destruction of Balentyne far to the east that firm foundation of invincible protection and authority had been knocked out from under them.

Lord Argus Welshire, the Duke of Farholde, had of course ridden off to confront the threat with all the men he could gather at the first opportunity, and for a time that decisive show of action had done much to reassure the people. The Duke was a beloved figure in the town, a veritable mountain with a fine temper and a heart of gold, dedicated to the protection of the people under his care, and most had allowed themselves to believe that he would sort this problem out in short order as he had done many times before. That optimism had lasted until just over two weeks ago, when news of Upandershire Ford had reached the town, the latest in a string of crushing defeats suffered by the brave men and women of Talingarde at the hands of the monstrous Fire-Axe and his barbarian horde. Duke Welshire had apparently met the enemy leader in single combat and been cut cleanly in two, his failure marking the turning point in a battle that cost the lives of hundreds of soldiers, many of them drawn from Farholde itself. There was not a family in town that did not know one of the dead, and that had brought the threat of the war home for many of them in a way that nothing else ever could.

Then had come the eruption in the jungle to the south, when the Horn of Abaddon had burned with green fire and half the population had woken screaming from terrible nightmares for days afterwards. No one knew precisely what was going on, but there was no denying that some great evil was being worked barely even a few miles from the town walls, some vile deed that was surely beyond even their wildest imaginings in scope and villainy. Several groups had tried to investigate and prevent whatever was going on out there, but so far all of them had either died or returned in defeat, screaming of demonic monsters and hordes of angry cannibals. That had given the threat proximity, stripping away the thin comfort of distance that the increasingly nervous people of Farholde had used to reassure themselves.

Then had come the murders, an angle that Titus took some considerable pride in, for he had arranged most of them personally. It had started small, just a few worthless nobodies abducted off the streets and slaughtered for the glory of Asmodeus, but where he would usually dispose of the bodies somewhere discrete he had instead left them out for all to find and admire. Before too long he had graduated to targeting the few pillars of faith and authority left within the town, stepping up the scale of his deeds with the rest of the White Ravens until they were slaughtering entire teams of adversaries in brutal midnight ambushes or carefully conducted assassinations. The fear and revulsion inspired by the deeds had been, for Titus at least, as much of an objective as the stated goal of discouraging investigation into the Horn, and he had relished the chance to walk among his unwilling audience and see first hand how they had responded to his artwork.

And it _was_ art, oh yes. He'd been a practitioner of this particular medium for years, plying his bloody trade across countries and through city after city, always staying one step ahead of the authorities but only rarely getting the opportunity to see how they reacted to his deeds. He had grown quite good at it, if he did say so himself, and if falling in with Zadaria and then the mysterious Cardinal Thorn had demanded he restrict his passions, they had at least bestowed him with the tools and training to replace quantity with quality. True, writing 'Stay away from the Horn' in his victim's blood on the walls near their last performance might have been a bit too on-the-nose, but even such theatrical tricks had their role to play in the grand design, and the terror and despair that had wrapped the city in the days following that little discovery had proven an intoxicant beyond compare.

Then the dragon had arrived, and brought with it that most illusive and resilient of emotions - hope.

Nobody had been able to get a proper look at the thing, but enough people had caught glimpses or seen it in the distance for the truth to become undeniably. A dragon, big as a house and with scales the same gleaming silver as freshly minted coins, had swooped down out of the north and circled Farholde at a fair distance one day before utterly vanishing. The common consensus was that it had come in response to the evil brewing in the Horn, for all the stories agreed that the metallic dragons were supposed to be paragons of goodness and nobility, and from there it hadn't taken long for people to conclude that their mysterious protector walked among them even now in magical disguise. Surely, the great wyrm intended to root out and cleanse the source of the foulness stalking Farholde's streets, and was merely biding it's time so as to make sure it could strike down all of their foes in a single night of righteous justice, rather than risk any of them escaping. Surely, their troubles would soon be at an end.

The temptation to slaughter someone else and leave their desecrated body displayed in the middle of town had been almost irresistible, but in the end Titus had bowed to Zadaria's command and restrained himself. In truth, he likely would have made the same decision on his own, for while he counted himself one of the most dangerous men in this useless trash heap of a city he was in no great hurry to test himself against an actual dragon. Reliable information on their capabilities and limits was frustratingly hard to come by, but at the very least the dragon was guaranteed to possess a keen mind, exceptionally developed senses and a grasp of arcane magic that would rival that of any mortal sorcerer. Such talents might very well allow it to track down the author of whatever atrocity he could concoct, and if it came to a fight... well, Titus knew himself to be skilled with a blade and counted the blessings of Asmodeus among his many advantages, but there was still something to be said for a house-sized mass of armour-plated muscle that could breath fire. Or perhaps ice - the stories were a little inconsistent on that part. Either way, not a fight he wanted to have any time soon, or indeed at all if such an encounter was even remotely avoidable.

Still, while the dragon was undeniably the most fearsome and attention grabbing of their potential enemies, it was far from the only one, which brought his attention back to the matter at hand. Making sure to smile in a friendly fashion at anyone who glanced his way, Titus made his way up the street and ducked inside the inn at the far end, pausing for a moment in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the new level of illumination. The _Auld Briarhall_ had come to serve as the main centre of their operations in Farholde over the past few months, and it was the place where he could most reliably expect the rest of the White Ravens to be located at any given moment. Sure enough, looking around the common room of the inn it did not take him long to spot them, and after taking a moment to brace himself the cleric made his way over.

Their little band had been together for quite a long time, certainly long before any of them had even heard the name of Adrastus Thorn, and it was because of that familiarity that he still thought of them as the White Ravens rather than the Seventh Knot. They took their name from Elise's familiar, a mutant bird with feathers the same colour as freshly fallen snow, and as always he merely had to check the witch's shoulder to find their unofficial mascot perched there once again. Titus didn't entirely trust that bird - he was sure that it was smarter than it let on, even before you got into the whole 'conduit to unearthly powers' business - but it was far from the weirdest thing he had seen so he tended to just treat it and its owner with studied professionalism. He'd advised his brother to do the same, but Tallus had gone and fallen in love with the bloody woman, a fact that he was grimly sure was going to be trouble one day. Still, better to leave tomorrow's problems for tomorrow, and with that thought in mind he nodded to his boss and pulled up a chair at their table.

"We've got a problem." He said bluntly, keeping his voice low without making it obvious that he was worried about eavesdroppers. Nothing attracted attention quite so much as someone obviously intending to avoid it, though the staff here had been well paid to mind their own business and none of their little network of spies and messengers was currently in evidence. Still, habits built up in peace were the kind that saved your life when trouble started, and he had no interest in allowing himself to get sloppy now, not when so much was potentially at stake.

"Oh?" Elise said, carefully feeding a small piece of meat to the bird perched on her shoulder. "Do tell."

Despite her casual response, Titus could see the way that the witch's eyes had sharpened at the news, while Dostan and Tallus both gave a professional once-over to everyone else in the bar in case the problem had followed their team-mate inside. Titus dearly hoped that it had not, for if he'd been followed they were all screwed. Which was all the more reason to relay his message quickly and get out, just in case.

"I met a rather charming young man in the markets earlier, buying the sort of supplies you need to take a team into the Briar." He continued, thanking his lucky stars and infernal patron alike that he'd been in the right place at the right time for this one. "He didn't say much, but he was wearing the robes of a priest of Mitra, and he mentioned a 'Father Matthias Harkon' in the sort of terms you use to describe your boss and childhood hero. Who, according to my other sources, is apparently more commonly known as _Inquisitor_ Harkon."

At that, everyone at the table went utterly still, like rabbits suddenly aware of a predator's attention. It was hardly the most flattering analogy, but Titus knew more than enough about the Inquisition to judge such a reaction as entirely fair under the circumstances. Mitra was known to have three aspects, but while most paid homage to the Beneficent Sun or Shining Lord, the Inquisition was known to hold the Fire Undying as their nigh-exclusive patron. Their faith called upon them to hunt down and exterminate evil wherever it might be found, to drag it out into the light of the sun and burn it with holy fire, and when combined with the full and unquestioning support of the monarchy such an attitude made for some truly relentless and terrifying hunters. No one in Talingarde took such beings lightly, and those who attempted to remove or subvert an Inquisitor tended to find themselves on the pyre with alarming speed.

"I see." Elise said slowly, evidently working out the full implications of this new development in the back of her mind. "Did you find anything about where he was staying?"

"Our young cleric made his way back to the Abbey after he was satisfied, and didn't come back out again." Titus said unhappily, and there were a pair of vaguely dismayed grunts from his brother and their hulking barbarian friend. The Sisters of Cynthia-Celeste were largely confining themselves to public order and civil defense at the moment, which meant they could be worked around or generally ignored, but they were still a large and well-armed quasi-military force based in the very heart of the city. To hear that they had suddenly acquired an Inquisitor from somewhere, without anyone else hearing about it in advance, was... disquieting.

"Well, that's unfortunate." Elise mused, her eyes half-closed as she considered potential courses of action. "If he's there, and he hasn't announced himself to the locals, that means he's aware of just how dangerous the streets have become of late. Which in turn suggests he intends to do something about it, likely by striking at the Horn. So far the only groups to try that have been independent adventurers, easily dispatched by us or the Ninth, but an Inquisitor..."

"What do you want me to do?" Titus asked mildly, and there was more meaning behind the question than many might otherwise assume. They had their orders from Thorn, after all, passed down to Elise in secret lest their rivals in the Ninth - well, rival singular, really, since he highly doubted Miss Barca was the type to share power - managed to overhear. With the use of the Iron Circlets which Thorn had granted them, Titus had made a habit of wearing the guise of a white-haired holy man when interacting with the various adventuring parties that came to Farholde. In most cases they simply exploited the trust that such a disguise generated to lure the poor fools into a lethal ambush, but he'd also taken the opportunity with Treya's Raiders to pass on some subtle hints and a few healing potions before sending them on their way.

It wasn't enough to make the mercenaries a truly unbeatable threat to the Ninth and their work, but apparently Thorn preferred to keep his agents sharp through repeated tests of their capabilities, tests which were only going to grow more severe with each passing day that the Ninth wasted in that daemon-haunted old ruin. And if the Lady Barca proved incapable of handling such a workload or began to truly forsake her duties, well, it was perhaps just as well that there was an alternate option waiting in the town nearby. Not that such an option had ever been directly stated, but it certainly matched what Titus had seen of the Cardinal's mindset to date.

The question now was whether to treat this unexpected development as yet another opportunity to test and bedevil their rivals, or was this the sort of thing that convinced a man to put aside such petty differences and unite in hopes of survival? Their were arguments for either side, and with that in mind Titus sat silently and waited for Elise's decision.

-/-

There were distinct advantages to having your very own murderous automaton follow you around, Timeon thought as he watched the alchemical golem stalk across the hall towards him, not least of which was the fact that you didn't have to go out of your way to retain their loyalty with bribes or other similarly positive treatment. He'd long since come to the conclusion that he'd never be quite so good with his words as the Lady Mira was, so by and large he'd settled on just appearing to be as quietly murderous and thus intimidating as he could get away with whenever his duties demanded that he interact with other people.

Certainly it seemed to be working with their latest band of recruits, a band of smugglers they'd caught trying to muscle in on the Orphan's turf back in the seedier areas of Farholde. With their previous leader rather thoroughly dead at the hands of a gigantic ogre, and knowing that their options were rather sharply limited in either following him or joining up with the new order, most had generally fallen over themselves in pledging their allegiance and proceeded to very carefully avoid anything that might give the appearance of disloyalty. There had been two exceptions, a pair of muscle-brained thugs who'd thought to just steal something from their new headquarters and then run back to their old life, and it was those two idiots that Timeon had just finished making an example of.

" _Master, command thy servant._ " The golem said, lurching to a halt in front of him and seemingly paying no mind to the thin droplets of gore that still covered its chassis. It looked as though it had gone out walking in a rain that happened to be made of blood, and when coupled with the low and rasping hiss it seemed to have for a voice the overall effect was rather marvelously intimidating. The disembodied brain and pair of mismatched eyes floating in the jar of preservative liquid on the top of it helped as well, naturally.

"Return to your previous guard station. Slay any that attempt to pass without authorization." He said simply. You had to keep your instructions simple when dealing with something like a golem, for despite the addition of a humanoid brain it was still a construct, incapable of adapting to new situations or working its way past contradictory orders. And that was before you got to the unique quirks of this particular example, such as its habit of ruthlessly butchering any other minions or tamed beasts assigned to stand guard alongside it. Timeon still hadn't worked out quite why it did that, though his running theory was a kind of morbid curiousity as to what their innards looked like, but either way it was safest to let the construct stand guard alone.

"So. Now you know what happens to anyone who attempts to steal from us." He said in a deliberately casual tone, turning to regard the smugglers lined up against the nearby wall. He'd chosen to use the prisoner holding cells on the third floor for this one, knowing that the sight of the cages and various sinister looking pieces of equipment would be just the thing to put his audience into a properly attentive mood. "Any further questions?"

They all shook their heads as quickly and emphatically as they could, apparently not entirely sure whether he would allow them to speak. Which was probably fair, since they had no idea what he personally might be able to do to them outside of unleashing an unstoppable murder machine, so Timeon simply sighed and gestured for them to precede him out of the room. Honestly, he had no idea how Mira coped with this sort of thing all the time, given that any level of fear the minions felt about him could only be magnified when it came to their supreme commander. Maybe he'd ask her later - they usually took some time in the evenings to keep each other updated on how everything was going, now that she had too many duties to reliably handle all of them without delegation.

The first smuggler was reaching for the door out of the room when it opened in front of him and death walked through.

Even before coming to the Horn, Timeon had seen death take a great many forms. It was the daemons and the ghosts, the wandering monsters that plagued them and the halfway tame ones that served them. It was charging knights and veteran soldiers, professional killers and thugs with knives. Today, death was a tall and broad-shouldered man with a shaven head, clad in armour under a heavy cloak of bright scarlet and wielding a flaming sword.

Inquisitor Harkon dived into his foes without fear or hesitation, the burning blade in his hands leaving faint after-images in the air as he swung it in elegant and deadly patterns. The first smuggler was dead before he even knew what was going on, his throat reduced to a charred ruin and his corpse tossed aside by the sheer momentum of the charging warrior-priest. The second found herself opened up from collar to hip by a vertical slash that was almost surgically precise, her only reaction a sort of wet choking noise as she struggled to come to terms with such a violent and unexpected demise.

Cursing, Timeon pulled his sword free from it's scabbard. There were a lot of questions he wanted answered, 'who the hell is this' and 'how did he get in here' being chief among them, but those would have to wait until later. Right now he needed to survive, a task that was made rather significantly harder by the fact that there was only one real exit from this room, and that was currently being blocked by a rather angry looking warrior-priest. There was another door to the north, but that only lead into the old 'chamber of delights' (and why the death priests had chosen to place that directly adjacent to their sacrifice holding cells he didn't want to know) and no further. That only one option, no matter how dangerous or unappealing said option happened to be, and if he wanted to get out of here alive he had to take it and try not to think about how bad his odds were.

Those odds became significantly worse a second later as another man entered the chamber behind the inquisitor, this one clad in the gleaming steel and gold armour that identified the Church's elite warriors. He was carrying a rather beautifully made halberd, and his motions were smooth and confident as he stepped in behind his superior and swept the blade around in a vicious arc that divided another of the smugglers just above the knee. There were only two of them left by this point, and both were retreating from the sudden assault with weapons still sheathed, reeling in the grip of shock and fear.

Snarling, Timeon planted a booted foot in the back of one of those useless idiots and kicked him back towards the enemy. The Inquisitor reacted quickly enough to bring his sword around and impale the screaming man through the chest, but while his blade was stuck there it wasn't anywhere else. That was an advantage that Timeon took full advantage of, seizing his dying subordinate by the belt and forcing him sideways so that the sudden shift of weight dragged the Inquisitor down towards the ground as well. Then, not hesitating, the ex-squire dived for the now-open door behind his enemy, moving as fast as he could in hopes of avoiding any attack from the second church warrior.

He almost made it. Unfortunately, there were rather more than just two enemies to contend with.

The halberd caught him just below the belt, the sharpened blade turned away from his vulnerable flesh but still sufficient to take his legs out from under him. His headlong sprint became a head first dive into the hard stone floor, and for a moment it was all that Timeon could do to gasp as the impact forced the air from his lungs and filled his eyes with glittering stars. Distantly, he heard another voice speaking, stern and filled with fire despite what seemed to be the vast distance separating them.

"Remove his limbs. Brother Vyte, treat the bleeding. He _will_ tell us what he knows before he dies."

Timeon screamed. It didn't help.

-/-

Mira was in an absolutely foul mood, and everything from her posture to the expression on her face conveyed this fact. Most of her people would doubtless have preferred to be anywhere else at this moment in time, but they had little choice in the matter, for in the wake of yesterday's utter disaster she had gathered every last one of her followers in the main temple on the first floor for an object lesson.

"So, allow me to clarify the situation." She said slowly, her voice burning with barely restrained rage. "Yesterday afternoon, while I was attending to business in town, a strike team of unknown Mitrans managed to waltz right into the third floor, which is supposedly the most secure area in this entire wretched mountain. They bypassed at least half a dozen security checkpoints or groups of soldiers, killed six new recruits, maimed and abducted my second in command... and no one... saw... _anything_."

The level of fear and trepidation in the chamber seemed to intensify, every last eye fixed upon her. Mira knew that she cut an impressive and intimidating figure, for she was currently clad in her infernal armour and seated in the sinister throne upon the raised dais, practically radiating anger and unholy power. The addition of the twin guardian daemons that flanked her on either side only heightened the impression.

Very few of her followers knew precisely how powerful she was, and where normally most would have taken some degree of comfort in their numbers and anonymity, something about the situation seemed to suggest that they were all in very immediate peril all the same. Mira knew all too well that if she unleashed the power burning within her, if she invoked the bindings that held her supernatural allies to her will and set them against the ones who failed her, every last one of the humans and Boggards currently doing their best not to quake in fear before her would _die_.

It was an immensely tempting idea.

Still, she knew that the majority of her followers were likely guilty of nothing more than simply being in a different area of the Horn when the attack came. If they'd been on the first floor, for example, there was little they could have reasonably been expected to do that would have allowed them to intervene against or even become aware of the enemy. Whatever else she might be, she refused to be the sort of commander who punished her troops for something that was not their fault. Even so, someone was going to pay for this shocking failure of security, and if drawing it out in front of everyone helped to drive home just how incredibly badly such a dereliction of duty would be taken, then that was all for the better.

"The residual aura around this mountain prevents any kind of teleportation or magical communication." She said evenly. "That means they must have approached from the forest, and they must have made use of one of the three entrances. All of which were meant to be guarded."

There was a faint flicker of movement at the edge of her vision, and Mira tilted her head back to regard the source. Ezra Thrice-Damned and his lesser wraiths currently floated near the ceiling of the temple, their translucent forms looking almost solid in the magical light from the braziers. It was the high priest who had moved, and Mira thought she could detect amusement in the faintly glowing lights that served as his eyes.

"Something to say, priest?" She said, allowing an edge of steel to creep into her voice, and the assembled minions flinched once again. None of them liked the undead, and the fact that their commander could command the loyalty of such beings was another hint as to the strange and terrible power bestowed upon her.

"Nothing relevant." Ezra returned, and she could definitely hear the malicious pleasure in his tone. Perhaps it was the connection between them that allowed her to pick up on such things, for she was sure that the priest would not be so foolish as to gloat if he knew she could detect it. Either way, that was not to be tolerated.

"I will decide that." She said, and exerted her will. As though suddenly weighed down by some immense burden, Ezra drifted down out of the air and stood before her at the base of the dais, only to immediately collapse further until he was all but groveling at her feet. "Now... how do you believe the Mitran forces got in? Answer honestly, to the best of your knowledge."

Ezra made a soft choking sound, as though desperately attempting to keep the words back, but her hold did not allow for any such discretion. "There is... a fourth throne. They could have... used that to bypass the wards."

Silence descended upon the chamber, no one daring to so much as breath in the wake of that revelation. Slowly, all eyes turned back to her, even the daemons curious about how she would react.

"A fourth throne." Mira said, her voice dangerously soft. "Which you did not think to mention before now?"

With slow, monumental effort, Ezra dragged his head upright enough to glare at her from within the depths of his ghostly cowl, eyes and voice burning with absolute _hatred_. "You... did not ask."

A moment passed. Then another, as Mira struggled to keep control of the absolute and all-consuming _rage_ that those words had ignited in her heart. Distantly, she acknowledged the lesson in all of this - even with magical reinforcement, fear and control produced poorer quality followers than self interest and devotion. It was something she would have to remember for the future. Right now, though, there was really only one thing to do.

"Hexor, Vexor..."

There was a faint _whump_ of displaced air, and suddenly there were six more people standing on the dais with her.

Before her conscious mind had even begun to really process what was going on, Mira's instincts compelled her into motion. She threw herself sideways, snatching up her sword from where it lay propped up against the edge of the throne, and as a result only lost a few strands of hair to the halberd's edge rather than her entire head. She hit the ground with the clatter of metal and rolled desperately, hissing a curse as another halberd came dangerously close to gutting her, before rolling to her feet at the edge of the dais.

All around the hall, pandemonium erupted as the gathered agents reacted to the sudden appearance of their sworn enemies. Yells and screams filled the air, the invaders roaring prayers to Mitra as they surged to the attack, but Mira had no time to consider any of that. Her foes were right in front of her, and if she wanted to rally her forces and arrange a coordinated counter-attack she would have to buy herself the necessary time with the deaths of her most immediate enemies.

There were two of them, both determined looking soldiers clad in heavy armour emblazoned with the distinctive marks of the Mitran faith. Some of the church's private forces then, a development which probably meant they were being lead by an Inquisitor. Only members of the clergy could command such men in battle, and only the Inquisition tended to use them for offensive actions, the rest preferring to assign their private army to guard duty or personal protection details. She'd never faced such men in battle before, or even seen them fight, but by their reputation they were supposed to all be trained veterans elevated from the ranks for their zealous faith as much as their hard won experience. Looking at these men, she could well believe it. Still, well trained enemies alone would not be enough to defeat her, and with that in mind Mira threw herself into the attack.

Her enemies were prepared for her, greeting her charge with a pair of coordinated strikes from their halberds that were too well timed to be the result of anything other than extensive experience. One struck low while the other went for her neck, relying on the fact that she did not have her shield and could not hope to parry both with a single sword. They were right to believe such a thing, and so she did not try, instead ducking under the high stroke and holding her blade in both hands to parry the second. Steel met steel and the two weapons rebounded from one another in a spray of sparks, but in defending herself she had surrendered her momentum and abandoned her offensive. That was an opportunity her foes would doubtless capitalize upon if given the chance, so she took the steps to deny them.

This close, the two soldiers were fully exposed to the aura of vile and unholy energy that swirled around her, and judging by their expressions neither had experienced anything even remotely like it before. That wasn't too surprising, really - there were a great many monsters in this world, and more than a few people with motives and beliefs that would set them in opposition to the church and its goals, but a dedicated and divinely empowered champion of an evil god was something entirely new. The hand of Asmodeus rested upon her, and as her power and experience grew so too did the effects of that patronage. Standing as her enemies, the soldiers found their wills sapped and their bodies slowed and made weaker, the corrosive touch of her power on their souls reflecting in their physical form. It wasn't enough to kill or even inflict tangible harm, but it _did_ throw them off balance and create an opportunity that she could exploit, so with a thought Mira summoned the power inside her and wove it into what some might call a spell. She looked at one of the soldiers, indicated the other and said:

"Kill him."

The first man didn't hesitate, sweeping his halberd around in a carefully chosen arc and catching his erstwhile comrade around the shin. The metal greaves were tough enough to offer some protection from the force of the strike, but it was still more than enough to thoroughly unbalance the second man and send him falling to the ground, the problem compounded by his utmost shock at the unexpected betrayal. In falling, he was vulnerable, a fact that both Mira and her ensorcelled puppet took full advantage of. The halberd knocked the arms aside and opened a vicious rent in the foe's breastplate, and with a savage smile Mira reversed her sword and stabbed through the newly created opening to transfix her foe's heart.

For such potent magic, the spell only lasted a few moments, and already she could see the confusion and domination falling from the first man's eyes. It was replaced by horror and shame as he realized what he had done, the emotions compounded by the will-sapping effects of her aura, and in that moment Mira knew that her opponent would never forgive himself for this as long as he lived. That hardly seemed fair, so with a shrug she decided to put him out of his misery and pressed the attack.

The halberdier was skilled and determined, but the shock of watching his comrade die and knowing that his weapon had done the deed was enough to throw him off balance, and what had been a minor gap between his skill and hers became an ever-widening gulf. Reveling in her power, Mira forced him back across the dais with a series of short, fast stabs, pressing the offensive and not allowing him to bring the increased reach of his weapon into play. Then, seeing that he would likely be able to stall her long enough for reinforcements to intervene if he kept this up, she deliberately sent one of her blows slightly askew and opened a hole in her defenses. It was not a feint, for a feint would merely have the appearance of a weakness whereas this one allowed her opponent to lash out and score a bloody groove down her flank, but it was still a decision made with full expectation of the consequences. Even as her muscles burned and blood flowed down her side, she reached out with her free hand to grasp the halberd by the shaft and hold it still, then brought her sword around and punched it through the thin section of armour around her enemy's waist. He dropped, and with a satisfied grunt she turned to regard the rest of the battle.

It was not going particularly well. Considering the forces she had available in this room she should be looking on a scene of victory through superior numbers, no matter how disorganized they had been at the start, but it seemed that her foes had chosen their tactics well for this one. One of their number was a lightly armoured scout of some kind, and he had made full use of the time purchased with surprise to fling vials of alchemist's fire across the chamber, creating large patches of searing flames that clung to the stonework and denied her forces the room to maneuver. The few gaps in the improvised defenses were being defended by the third and final soldier with a halberd, who was using wide and sweeping strikes to force his foes to keep their distance or else risk being knocked into the flames when they pressed the assault. It was not a tactic that would buy a great deal of time, for even now she could see Boggards hefting javelins and her other soldiers setting up firing lines with their bows, but even a short period of time was enough for his superiors to accomplish their real objective.

One of the remaining attackers was obviously a priest, his thick blue robes barely concealing a suit of heavy armour that denoted him as a member of one of the kingdom's more militant orders. He was facing off against Hexor, presenting the silver and sapphire holy symbol of his faith as though it were a weapon and bellowing commands for surrender and departure in the celestial tongue. It should have appeared ridiculous, a young man desperately clinging to the trappings of his faith in the hope that it would save him from the raw embodiment of painful death that loomed over him, but somehow the young man was actually managing to prevail. Hexor was staggering backwards, chunks of furred skin falling from his powerful body as though flayed away by some razor wind, while the holy symbol blazed with divine light. Vexor was nowhere to be seen - had the priest already banished the other daemon? That was a problem, for the two outsiders were some of her most potent resources, but she could worry about that later.

Their obvious leader was much more of a concern. Clad in a brilliant scarlet cape over a suit of gleaming armour, he held before him a burning sword that shone with the light of the sun itself, the radiance drowning out the weaker light from the braziers and sending long shadows crawling across the floor. In the air before him Ezra and his spawn writhed and struggled, their movements sluggish and uncoordinated as the divine light of the sun scourged their immaterial forms. From the Inquisitor's other hand emerged much more concentrated blasts of sunlight, striking each of the ghosts in turn and scouring them from the face of creation. She'd known that the wraiths possessed a significant weakness to natural sunlight, but she had always assumed that such a weakness would never come into play while they remained inside the Horn. Instead, her enemy had apparently brought the sunlight with him, a deed that marked him as both powerful and resourceful. He was easily the most dangerous foe here, and with that thought in mind Mira hefted her sword and charged.

In the aura of sunlight surrounding the Inquisitor she became a living shadow, the power of Asmodeus swirling around her as she invoked the divine gifts with which she had been blessed. Her muscles bulged with unholy power, and her blood-stained blade burned into life to become a twin of the one wielded by her foe. She approached from behind and gave no battle cry or challenge, but he managed to detect her approach regardless, spinning on the spot and bringing his sword sweeping down in a powerful overhead blow.

Mira intercepted the stoke with one of her own, anticipating the bone-numbing impact and thus recovering from it fractionally faster than her opponent. The Inquisitor staggered backwards as she left a thin cut down one arm, only to rally with commendable speed and return to the attack. Their swords flashed back and forth with speed and strength, each impact shedding trails of sparks and making the temple ring with the sound of metal upon metal. Stances shifted and positions were changed, each combatant trying to determine the most advantageous strategy to pursue against an unexpectedly dangerous enemy, and after a few more futile exchanges Mira deigned to actually speak.

"You're good." She said grudgingly, the power of her dark god allowing her to maintain such a frenzied pace of combat without the slightest sign of fatigue. "Ruthless, too. I don't suppose there's any chance you left my lieutenant alive?"

The Inquisitor snarled, his pale blue eyes like two chips of ice set in a face heavily scarred by elements and blades alike. "The penalty for devil-worship is death. I merely carried out the sentence."

Mira's eyes were cold as she stared at her enemy, their blades momentarily slowed as each sought to identify a weakness in the other's defense. "Death by burning, as I recall. I owed that boy a great deal, and I was fond of him besides. Now you tell me that you mutilated him, tortured him until he broke, then burned him on a pyre and listened to his screams. To come here and face me when you have done such things... you must truly have a death wish."

"Death in service to Mitra is a worthy end." The Inquisitor said, with all the fatalistic acceptance of the true fanatic. "Word of your crimes has already been passed on. If I can deliver the king's judgement to you now then all the better, but if I fail then another will succeed in my place."

"Unless I kill him as well." Mira growled back, lunging forwards and continuing the offensive. Her blows her stronger than his, the infernal energies coursing through her body and blade enough to give her a distinct advantage, but the Inquisitor was not without his own tricks. Mitra was a god of healing and sanctuary as much as anything else, and the wounds she was dealing to him were healing almost as fast as she could inflict them. Almost, but not quite - she was definitely winning, and with a fierce smile she pressed her advantage, drawing thin streams of blood with every strike.

He broke her momentum by the simple expedient of punching her in the face with a mail-shod fist, and Mira felt her nose break under the impact with a dull crunch. Spitting blood she staggered back, fending off his renewed assault with a few defensive moves, and found herself standing next to the prone and sun-ravaged form of ERa Thrice-Damned.

"Stop playing with this fool and break that sword." The ghost hissed. "Remove the light and I can aid you..."

Without a word, Mira took her sword in a two-handed grip and swung down, cleaving the angry spirit in two with a single strike. Ezra shrieked in pain and surprise, attempting to hold his incorporeal form together with sheer force of will, but under the merciless light of the sun such an effort was doomed to failure. The death priest, having endured for decades past his own demise on little more than hate and dark faith, rapidly fell apart and dissolved in a shower of green light and ectoplasm.

"You betrayed me once already. I have no interest in your aid." Mira said quietly, never taking her eyes off the Inquisitor before her. For his part, the Mitran seemed torn between approval and stunned bemusement.

"That was justice rightly delivered, but you should have listened to it." He said calmly, the flow of blood from his wounds slowly tapering off as his magic repaired the damage. "You cannot defeat me alone. My wounds regenerate, while yours only slow you down. In a battle of attrition, my victory is inevitable."

"True." Mira admitted with a nod. "Which is why I'm not going to engage you in a battle of attrition. I'm going to take your head in a single stroke."

The Inquisitor sneered. "You are welcome to try, devil..."

That was as far as he got before half a ton of armour plated ogre landed on him with enough force to crack the floor. Teeth bared in rage and hatred, Grumblejack glared down at the stunned and injured man under his feet, assessed that he was still breathing and proceeded to fix that problem by the simple expedient of jumping up and down.

Mira blinked.

"Well, that works too." She said, half to herself. In fairness, she couldn't really blame Grumblejack for getting involved there. The ogre had formed something of a bond with Timeon over the past few weeks, so hearing how the Inquisitor had tortured and then executed the young squire would have made him every bit as angry as it had made her.

A quick glance around confirmed that the rest of the enemy had already been vanquished, with the sole exception of the young priest who had managed to banish her daemons. He was standing on the dais next to the throne, watching the brutal death of his master with an expression somewhere between horror and righteous anger. Sighing, Mira pointed her sword at him, ignoring the way her own blood dripped from all along her arm.

"Flee now, boy." She said bluntly. "If everyone now knows who I am and what I do here, then you can take this message to them as well. Tell them that this place is mine, and that none of you have the strength to take it from me. Come here again, and I will cut out your heart and fling your body from the mountainside. Begone."

The young priest fixed her with a look that was the very picture of absolute hatred, before speaking a single word in the Abyssal tongue. There was a faint _pop_ , and he was gone. Sighing, Mira turned away from the throne and began to make her way over to the long and winding staircase. She'd have to do something about that other teleporter - maybe even all of them, since if there was one hole in her defenses the chances of there being a second were more than negligible. Then she'd have to go looking for someone to replace Timeon as her adjutant. It would have to be someone that she trusted, rather than anyone brought over to the cause through threats and lack of other options, for the business with Ezra had rather effectively convinced her of the importance of such things. Speaking of which...

She reached into one of the pouches on her belt and fished out the pair of amulets she kept there. The daemons were gone, but as long as the amulets that bound them here remained intact they would eventually return. The question was, then, did she want them to? The chances that they had known nothing about the other teleporter were slim, and even if they had Ezra had rather conclusively proved that relying on an ally magically bound to service was a risky proposition at best. They brought her some considerable strength, it was true, but were the risks and penalties associated with that strength worth it? She was starting to think not. When she considered the rather ugly prospect of her intended betrayal of Vetra-Kali at the end of all of this...

Slowly, Mira closed her hand around the amulets and squeezed, listening to the sounds of breaking metal as she exerted her magically enhanced strength to its full capacity. Slowly, she began to smile. The Inquisitor had come close to ruining her, but she had persevered and overcome everything he had managed to do. Defending this place without the daemons or the ghosts would likewise be difficult, but this too, she would overcome.

She would win, or she would die, but either way she would end her time in this blasted place on her own terms. Her pride would accept nothing less.


	30. Act Seven - New Allies

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty Eight - New Allies

The Vandermir home for Orphans was a well built, highly imposing structure that dominated the eastern side of the district known as 'Esthill', itself the easternmost of the five hills that the bulk of Farholde was built on. The soaring bulk of its stone walls could be seen for several blocks around, poking out over the skyline anywhere you could get a decent view of the city, and knowing what she did of the good Baron's ambitious nature and sense of well-earned pride Mira doubted it was coincidental.

In style it aped the more refined and sophisticated buildings of the south, albeit modified to better withstand the harsher climates of the northern territories, and everything from the red brick walls to the crests of arms engraved in the stonework lent it an air of respectability and professionalism. This was no mere holding pen, the building seemed to say, no squalid hole where one could dump the younger class of undesirables and promptly forget about them until they came of age. No, this was a place of learning and self-improvement, where those poor unfortunates who had lost everything to the vagaries of fate could be given a second chance, elevated above their circumstances by the wisdom and charity of the Baron Vandermir.

Even setting aside the less legal benefits that the Baron reaped from his investment here, in the form of the burgeoning criminal organization built around a loyal core of orphans, Mira could not help but approve. The notion of a well funded and well run orphanage appealed to her sense of order - one could hardly expect the children of dead citizens to simply fade away and never be seen again, and thus a place was needed for them to go. If she had her way such institutions would be run by the crown, imbuing the future citizens of the nation with the right set of education and values to make them both productive and prosperous, the sort of investment that only the royal family was really in the position to reliably make. Still, if the Darian regime was uninterested in such projects she would accept their performance by more enlightened members of the nobility - and if such wise aristocrats benefited from the easily-induced sense of loyalty and obligation held by those who graduated from such places, rather than the treacherous and usurping Darians, well that was merely the world working as it should.

If she were to be completely fair, and she strived to be when such was a reasonable option, she would reluctantly concede that the Darians did not _entirely_ neglect their disenfranchised youth. They simply relied upon the Church of Mitra to tend to such lost souls for them, and in exchange were gifted with an endless supply of new theocrats and fanatics rather than the more secular loyalists a state institution could have provided. For a family sure of the devotion of the clergy such a distinction might have seemed irrelevant, but Mira was under no misapprehensions about the loyalty of her own god. Asmodeus was a supreme ruler, and while he accepted her oath of fealty and allowed her to command others in his name, those who were sworn directly to him were his and no one else's.

Either way, the orphanage was about to offer up yet more resources for her to command, if she had any say in the matter. She already had effective control over the bulk of the Baron's shadow empire, even if a sizeable portion of them were kept in town so as to keep track of their ongoing operations and avoid any unfortunate power vacuums, but after the betrayal of Ezra Thrice-damned and her willing destruction of her daemon guardians she was in need of more... _arcane_ retainers to assist her further operations. A quiet word with the Baron, who seemed to find the prospect of her removing the last remains of the death cultists entirely agreeable, had directed her here, to the orphanage. Or more specifically, to its headmaster.

Bergill Mott was a civilized, _respectable_ member of the middle classes in good standing with his peers and the wider community. A human in his late middle age, the headmaster's dark hair was just starting to go grey around the temples and the first signs of wrinkles were appearing at the edges of his eyes, but even so he remained young and surprisingly vital. He was well liked in the town in the way that only a man entirely given over to charitable causes could be, and as far as the vast majority of people were concerned his sole duty and interest consisted of managing the lives and education of several dozen rambunctious children of varying ages. It was a role he had performed diligently for many years now, and it was one that Mira was hoping he would consent to set aside in favour of joining her own operations.

Securing an interview had been relatively easy, for while the orphanage technically owed no loyalty to the man whose name it bore the headmaster was well aware of who controlled all of their funding and general political goodwill. A simple letter from the Baron had been enough to compel the headmaster to clear some space in his schedule with almost indecent haste, and barely a day later Mira found herself being shown into his study by a young girl in classical servant's garb, her true demeanor betrayed only by the hard look in her eyes. The children here were clearly fanatically loyal to their benefactor and effective gang boss, their allegiance subtly reinforced by a campaign of whispers and an official curriculum lightly flavored with the appropriate moral lessons. Idly, Mira wondered if any of them had ever gone so far as to kill in order to preserve this haven for themselves and their adopted siblings. Surely there must have been someone who tried to have the place closed down or otherwise limited in the past, ranging from an ambitious tax man to a hostile gang leader smart enough to follow the trail of new recruits.

"Thank you, Cindy. That will be all." Headmaster Mott, seated behind a desk and his eyes half-concealed by a pair of silver-edged spectacles, said to the young woman in a kindly voice. "Could you please wait outside until our guest is ready to depart?"

"Of course, Headmaster." The girl said, her accent that of a student slowly losing the rough-edged drawl of a street kid in favour of that bestowed by a proper education. "You let me know if you need anything."

Mira watched her go with a slight smirk, waiting until the door had been properly closed before turning back to the watching form of the Headmaster. She had opted to wear another dress for this one, deciding against any show of force in a place ostensibly dedicated to nothing more than charity and education. "Your students seem somewhat on-edge. Did I miss my guess, or was she offering to have me thrown out if you didn't like what I had come here to say?"

"Their loyalty is freely given, sharpened by an uncertain situation." Mott said in a bland tone, before gesturing to the chair in front of him. "Please, sit. The Baron was not specific about what it was you wished to speak with me about, but unless I miss _my_ guess, you are somehow connected with the disturbances that have rocked my city of late."

"The root cause, actually, if I might indulge in a little arrogance." Mira returned easily, impressed by the headmaster's insight and opting to dispense with the delicate dance of misdirection in favour of something approaching honesty. "My name is Mirabelle Barca, and I'm the one responsible for the gigantic glowing mountain on the horizon."

Headmaster Mott just gazed at her levelly for a long moment, his expression serene and no hint of his true thoughts allowed to betray themselves in his eyes or tongue. "An unusual admission, and one that already predisposes me against you, I am afraid to say. When the mountain ignited half of my wards woke with screaming nightmares every night for the next week, an occurrence which in an of itself was not exactly conducive to my own rest."

"My apologies." Mira said, going through the motions even though she didn't truly care and didn't expect him to believe otherwise. "The old enchantments woven into the stone there were rather more active than I had expected, and reclaiming the place for my own use resulted in some unintended side effects. Which, in a way, was rather why I came here today."

"If such was the direct source of motivation you seem to have delayed an unusually long length of time." Mott observed in a neutral tone of voice. "Some eight weeks by now, I believe, already more than enough time for you to take a controlling interest in my graduates and turn them to your own ends. Oh, none of them betrayed your purpose, but you could not take all of them, and those left behind still like to speculate and wonder. I am not a fool, Lady Barca, and while I appreciate the implied flattery there is some other factor that has compelled you to finally approach me directly."

"You have an uncommon insight." Mira allowed, grudgingly impressed despite herself. She was no slouch when it came to wit and intellect, but it was becoming abundantly clear that the good Headmaster rather outstripped her in such areas, a fact which she would need to take into account if she was to convince him to follow her. "I had a visit from the Mitran Inquisition not all that long ago."

She could see the way that his gaze sharpened at that, though his tone remained as level as ever. "An occupational hazard when one is in the business of renovating abandoned temples to deities best forgotten, I'm afraid." He said calmly. "You have my sympathies, but I am afraid I still don't see what this has to do with me."

Mira smiled, and played her trump card. "Truly? I am surprised. Didn't they try to have you executed once?"

For a brief moment Mott sat perfectly still, his every muscle frozen and his gaze piercingly direct. When next he spoke, his voice fairly rang with power and authority, lent an unnatural weight by some manner of spell or enchantment. " **You should go.** "

Still smiling, Mira stayed exactly where she was, feeling the arcane power behind his words even as they washed harmlessly over her. The gifts of Asmodeus were many, and among them was a firm conviction that none but the First Tyrant could dare to truly command her and succeed. She paused for a moment, allowing Mott to see the ineffective nature of his spell, then pressed on.

"I am glad to see that you have not allowed your studies of the arcane arts to wane in your enforced exile, but I must ask that you do not try that again." She said with every impression of politeness. "Otherwise I shall have to object in more forceful terms, and no one wants that. Assuming, of course, you don't actually _want_ to be burned to death at the stake."

"Vandermir." Mott said the name like a curse, sitting back in his chair. "For twelve years he protects my secret, and barely two months after you arrive than he betrays me for little more than a smile and a nod."

"Rather more than that, actually, which brings me back to the reason why I'm here." Mira said smoothly, ignoring the slight against her ally pass unchallenged in the interests of diplomacy. "While sharing the full details with one not yet sworn as my ally would be premature, I have little to lose by admitting that I am set upon a course which will bring me into decisive and ultimately rather ruinous conflict with the House of Darius and all of their works. I believe, with solid justification, that my associates and I have the strength and cunning we need to topple them once and for all. The Inquisitor wished to prevent me, and so came to the Horn with a strike team of his finest men. Those men are all dead now, as is everyone else who has marched against me thus far."

It was a slight exaggeration, she had to admit. Naturally the first thing she had done after securing the Horn in the wake of the Inquisitor's assault had been to dispatch forces to follow the young priest who had survived the attack, hoping to see where he had gone to ground and root him out before he could summon further reinforcements. Unfortunately the trail had led straight to the Abbey of Saint Cynthia-Celeste, which meant that there was somewhere in the order of a hundred militant battle nuns standing between her and her opponent - a level of opposition that she frankly felt unable to effectively oppose at the present moment. Which was one of the reasons that she had gone looking for more allies - Grumblejack was pursuing another lead over in Drownington, and she had asked the Baron to put out feelers for other options in his own particular way. Command of the forces back at the Horn was currently the responsibility of Tasker Twelve-Knives, who for all his mercenary nature and forced recruitment had thus far proven himself both professional and reliable. Or at the very least smart enough to know the consequences of double-crossing her.

Of course, she'd also dropped by the lair of the Seventh Knot, rather interested to find out how exactly a strike force of Inquisitorial agents had managed to slip past what was supposed to be an extensive surveillance network and strike without warning. As it turned out the Seventh _had_ known about the Inquisitor in advance, and had apparently tried to send a messenger to her warning of the danger. Elise had suggested that her man was have met with an unfortunate end within the confines of the Caer Byr, and knowing the dangers of that place while not being able to conclusively determine any signs of deception Mira had opted to let the explanation stand unchallenged. She wouldn't put it past Elise to knowingly allow hostile agents past her if it meant that her rival was embarrassed in the eyes of Lord Thorn, but so long as the witch kept it to easily deniable harassment tactics there wasn't a lot she could or was particularly inclined to do. If anything such moves would only help to keep her sharp, and if she couldn't handle a few ambitious rivals she had no hope of winning the war entire.

"And you hope to convince me to join you in this mad quest for the throne?" Headmaster Mott asked in an arch tone. "Your successes thus far are impressive, but I am well aware of the power and influence that the House of Darius commands. Why precisely should I throw away the comfortable life I have here to join you?"

Much as she had with Baron Vandermir, Mira knew she had him now. The spell had been a reaction born of instinct, a response developed after years of living in fear that the Inquisiton would eventually track him down and send him back to the stake for his unsanctioned studies. She was past that now, but a man who was truly determined to have nothing to do with her would have moved on to other techniques both subtle and overt, not sat back and invited her to make her case. He was at the very least open to being persuaded, and she had enough confidence in her skills - combined with a full briefing of her target's beliefs and personal history - to know that her success was much more likely than any failure. So long as she treated him with sufficient respect and didn't go making dangerous assumptions, at least.

"Allow me to start with some reassurances - there is no coercion here." She said, raising a hand to cut off the Headmaster's first likely form of objection. "Baron Vandermir was very clear with me on that. He values you and the work you do highly, and takes his oath to you very seriously. If you hear me out and choose not to join me, he will take no action against you and will continue the existing arrangements much as they are."

"Glad to know there's still some honour in the old man." Mott allowed grudgingly. "Go on, then. Make your pitch."

"You make it sound so banal." Mira replied with a laugh. "But very well. I might as well start with what you stand to gain. Wizards are in short supply in Talingarde, much less ones willing to work for someone like me, and I am no stranger to the value represented by your knowledge and education. You would be able to very nearly name your price, and my resources - while not infinite - are currently somewhat larger and more varied than those commanded by the good Baron, increasing at a noticeable rate."

"You would seek to buy my service, and quite possibly my soul, with simple material wealth?" Mott managed to sound almost offended by the idea. "Such things are for lesser men."

"You might be surprised." Mira said neutrally. "Mammon is one among the Nine, and he owns the service of princes and kings just as much as those of debtors and those made destitute. One can always find a use for more wealth, but just as he is but one of the Lords, so too are such resources merely one among many incentives I offer."

She paused for a moment to see if he had any further comments, but if so it seemed he was content to keep them to himself, and so she pressed on. "More personal, perhaps, might be the chance of revenge. I have already slain one Inquisitor, and if you are as smart as I think you are you know that my God and Mitra are not precisely on the best of terms. I will do great damage to the Church before my work is done, one way or the other, and considering how many academics they have sent to the pyre I would be quite surprised if you did not find the thought at least somewhat tempting."

"A more worthwhile incentive, I must admit." Mott said slowly, a gleam of old hatreds left to fester showing briefly in his pale eyes before cold logic reasserted itself. "But I have avoided their grasp with some success so far, and I am not inclined to risk falling back into it with ill-considered action. Have you other bribes to offer?"

"More of a clarification." Mira replied, enjoying this despite herself. Apparently the role of the temptress was a satisfying one to play, allowing her to pick apart the foundations of her target's beliefs and turn their own hidden desires to her preferred ends. "You say you have avoided their grasp. I would say they are controlling your life even now - forcing you into hiding, curtailing your studies, filling your life with fear. You have continued your education as best you can under the circumstances, it is true, but I think we both know you could be so much more without their interference. Come with me and I shall make you a wizard in truth, able to declare your nature without fear and dedicate your time to mastery of the arcane without shackling yourself to the prejudices of lesser men."

There was a kind of hunger in his eyes now, the soul-deep desire of a man long forced to bury his dreams deep beneath the surface lest others condemn him for their possession. She had convinced him, she could see that at a glance, but his own pride and self awareness compelled him to play out the charade a few moments longer.

"So, you would appeal to me through greed, through wrath and through pride?" He said with a wry smile. "Why not simply progress through all of the sins in turn? Or would that be too blatant for a servant of the Pit?"

"I make no claims to be anything but what I am, and part of that is coming to accept the less wholesome parts of one's own soul." Mira said lightly. "Such things are part of who we are, and we deny them at our peril. Still, for the sake of completeness - for envy I might compare your situation to that of the theocrats who back the current administration, and offer to see you elevated in their place. Gluttony is easily sated by the resources at my disposal, and if I have my way one day I and those most useful to me will literally eat like kings. Sloth alone holds no real incentive for joining my service, and as for lust... you are an attractive enough man, and while my own pride forbids I prostitute myself for the sake of obtaining a follower, you could hardly find much reluctance from my other servants, if such was your desire. I think that about covers it?"

Mott laughed then, the slightly uncertain laugh of a man who has made a decision to commit to a course of action and cannot quite believe his own daring. "It does indeed, Lady Barca. Very well. It shall take me some time to put my affairs in order, but if following you will allow me to be a magister once more... I accept."

-/-

Grumblejack was not a particularly complicated individual.

This was not the same as saying he was stupid, a point which he had been forced to clarify with both painstaking care and the liberal use of violence more than once in the past. True, he was not as well educated as certain others he had come into contact with before, and he couldn't juggle ten different topics in his mind at the same time without getting hopelessly confused, but he was insightful enough and could generally be relied upon to read a situation and come to the correct conclusion nine times out of ten. Coupled with his exceptional physical prowess and he'd never really needed much more to get through life.

Baron Vandermir's patronage had helped a great deal in that regard. Looking back, he tended to identify the point where the mostly-human nobleman had hired him as the point where his life actually began. Everything before that was a blur of wilderness survival, growing pains and hard lessons learned at the hands of a hostile country. He'd been a bandit and then a mercenary, leveraging his self-taught skills into a reasonably successful career in those quarters of society which didn't care all that much about his heritage, but it was the Baron who had actually taken him in and provided the kind of training and equipment necessary to pick himself up out of the gutter and make something respectable of himself.

Well, relatively respectable, anyway. He was still a mercenary killer who used violence and the threat of violence to get his way, but now he could read and write and wander into a bar after a day's work with the reasonable expectation of getting a drink rather than a sword to the guts. That was a valuable thing indeed, and he would always be grateful to the Baron for providing it, even if he drew the line at crossing into outright servitude. The nobleman was simply too refined, too hands off to really command any level of true obedience from the ogre without the added incentive of coin and the things one could secure along with it.

His new boss, though, was rapidly proving herself to be something entirely different. Miss Barca (professional courtesy was always important) was the kind of person who walked without care back and forth across the lines that had previously dominated his world. She was a noble, capable of blending into a high society ball and twisting all the overfed pompous fools there around her little finger, while also being the kind of raw gutter-brawler that would cheerfully jump into a fight at his side and actual make a positive contribution to the whole affair. He wasn't too sure about the 'religious crusader' angle, but maybe he'd come around to that after a bit of thought. After all, there was a decent chance that such devotion was quite literally in his blood.

Chuckling to himself, the ogre flexed his muscles and enjoyed the way that the large leathery wings on his back stretched and recoiled in response. It felt incredible, and that was before you took into account the raw strength that he could feel infusing his body or the way that he could call upon actual magic now without little more effort than was required to breath. He'd always had what he thought of as a healthy level of respect for mages - everyone else could be assessed as a potential threat by looking at their equipment and the way they moved or held themselves, but a mage might be capable of anything from throwing a few sparks to burning down half a city and there was simply no way to tell until they did something. He was apparently on the lower end of the scale when it came to such things, but he could tell that the potential for more was lurking within his blood, ready to answer his commands as soon as he figured out how to make them. It felt brilliant, better than getting absolutely smashed after a successful job, and every time he enjoyed the fruits of his new gifts he was reminded of the debt that he owed to Miss Barca because of them.

Fortunately, she wasn't the sort to demand absolute slavish obedience in repayment of such a debt. No, she simply gave him tasks to carry out and trusted that he would do so, rewarding successful assignments with cash or other valuables and making sure to drop a positive comment every now and then in acknowledgement of his exemplary service and significant value. He knew she only did it because it was a low-cost way of keeping a useful agent happy - as always, he wasn't stupid - but that didn't change how effective the approach was.

Take his current assignment, for example. After the ghost and the daemons had proven themselves so completely unreliable (and really, he'd always figured they probably would be, what with the whole 'oh we're mad death cultists' thing), she'd gone looking for new muscle to replace them. Apparently there was a wizard of some kind hiding out in an orphanage who she was currently off recruiting personally, because having more magic on your side was pretty much always useful, but there was just as much call for actual _muscle_ as well. So she'd spoken to some of her other underlings, obtained the name and territory of a rival gang in Farholde known as Thatcher's Crew, and told Grumblejack to go and recruit them.

Technically she'd given him a large bag of gold pieces to use in the pursuit of that goal, doubtless envisioning some kind of bribery reinforced by subtle threats to get them on board, but such methods were rather more subtle than Grumblejack was entirely happy with. Oh, he could do subtle if it was absolutely required, but as far as he was concerned if you didn't have to be subtle, why would you? Which was why he was currently intended to skip that whole 'delicate negotiations' stage and just start hitting people until they agreed that he was in charge now.

He _was_ making use of the slender metal circlet she'd lent him, which was some kind of magic thing that would allow him to pretend he didn't actually have gigantic demon-wings and various other sinister looking mutations, but that was really more a matter of practicality than anything else. You didn't walk around a friendly town looking like you'd made a deal with something horrible and evil, because if you did then you would rapidly find that it wasn't actually a friendly town any more. The Church of Mitra didn't have a lot of appeal to someone like him, but he was well aware of just how many of them there were and how much fire they tended to use whenever they got seriously freaked out by something. Neither of which would make his life any easier or less terminally short, and thus necessitated the use of a proper disguise.

A few quick enquiries, supplemented by a bribe or two, had been more than sufficient to uncover where precisely Thatcher's Crew could be found on any given day. That was the downside of running a criminal gang in a place like Drownington - you needed to retain a degree of visibility or else your reputation would suffer, and while a band of smugglers might be able to get away with proper discretion someone who relied on their own strength and sheer intimidation couldn't afford to be seen hiding. Mickey Thatcher therefore relied on a combination of implicit threat and early warning provided by paid lookouts in order to keep his base of operations secure, operating out of an old warehouse that had doubtless been extensively modified with hidden compartments and emergency escape routes. Which was why Grumblejack was doing this alone - there wasn't much chance that he could find the gang without them hearing about his interest, and if he'd shown up with a platoon of his own soldiers the Crew would probably just slip away before he could get there. That wasn't anywhere near as excusable when the hunter consisted of a single person, and if Thatcher let it be known that he'd run and hid rather than at least try to manage a confrontation then his career in the shadows would basically be over already.

Granted, Grumblejack was sufficiently tough, strong and all-round dangerous to be equivalent to a squad of state troopers all by his lonesome, but it was perception that mattered in things like this, far more so than mere facts.

Humming cheerfully to himself, the ogre made his way along one of the narrow and twisting streets that lead to his destination, enjoying the way that so many of the locals took one look at his powerful form and promptly vanished as fast as they could manage. People in Drownington were well used to avoiding that which they could not hope to oppose, and just as how they built their homes on stilts and concrete slabs to keep them free of the spring floods they always made sure to keep a weapon handy and an escape route in mind. The warehouse in question was half-way rotten from years of constant exposure to the annual floods, but the locks on the doors were new and the wooden boards nailed down across the windows would be more than sufficient to turn aside all but the most determined burglar.

Grumblejack could have just charged the door and trusted that a combination of his sheer bulk and momentum would be sufficient to break down even treated hardwood, but Miss Barca had been quite clear about the value of being civil when you had the option. It cost him nothing to ask politely before resorting to violence, and he felt it added a certain something to the image he liked to maintain. With that in mind, the ogre paused for a moment on the threshold, cleared his throat with a sound like grinding stones, raised one meaty fist to shoulder height and knocked.

"Good morning, Master Thatcher." He said in a voice loud enough to be heard by any number of the hidden observers lurking in the buildings all around them. "We have some business to discuss. I'd take it as a kindness if you would open the door."

There was a long delay at that, during which Grumblejack simply folded his hands behind his back and waited. Doubtless Thatcher wanted his crew to get in the appropriate positions so as to project the proper amount of strength and authority after they let him in, and it would be most inconsiderate of him to deny them that. Or maybe he was going to do something incredibly foolish like setting up an ambush, in which case Grumblejack would need to instill a few lessons on good manners with the aid of a book on etiquette and a convenient battle-axe.

Eventually there came the sound of metal bolts being drawn aside and chains being removed from the far side of the door, in considerably greater quantities than he would have imagined a place like this would normally require. With a creak of poorly oiled hinges the door swung wide, and with a smile Grumblejack stepped across the threshold and began contemplating the most efficient way to kill everyone inside. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, but it was always good to be prepared, and honestly the thought exercise alone was often rather entertaining.

Thatcher's Crew consisted of perhaps twenty or so lowlife thugs and sworn agents, none of them with any kind of formal combat training or military experience, and as expected their leader had chosen to gather every last one of them here to meet him. They sat on piles of boxes, leaned against walls and leant over the railings on the upper walkways, idly toying with a wide range of vicious looking weapons and doing their best to fix him with what they thought were intimidating glares. It might even have worked, were it not for the rather pertinent fact that he was larger than any of them by something approaching an order of magnitude and had the advantage of a bloodline straight from the depths of hell itself. Or possibly the abyss. Either way, his first impression was to mentally compare them all to a collection of those small, yapping puppies that some of the noble folk liked to keep around, the kind which tried to growl menacingly at you and instead just ended up looking adorable.

And at the centre of them all, perched on the highest catwalk like a king above his court, was Mickey Thatcher himself - a slender man with hair the colour of straw and a most unwholesome gleam in his eyes. He held a dagger in his hands and toyed with it as he watched his unwelcome guest move to the centre of the room, radiating a kind of languid confidence that was doubtless meant to reassure his allies and discomfort his enemies more than reflecting his real mental state. You had to learn how to fake that sort of thing if you wanted to get anywhere in life.

"Why, if it isn't old Jack himself, come back home to say hello." Thatcher called out in a low, drawling tone, edging his voice with rather more mockery than was entirely safe for a man in his position. "What do you want, lapdog? Here to pass on another message from that ponce you call a boss?"

Grumblejack raised one bushy eyebrow, amused at the way in which he barely even needed to tilt his head to meet the gaze of the gang leader. This sort of set up rather relied on the notion that the person you were attempting to intimidate was roughly human height - it rather ruined the whole impression of unassailable power and authority when your target could probably reach up and grab you by the shin without even needing to stretch all that far.

"I don't work for the Baron anymore, Mister Thatcher." He said in as polite a tone as he could manage, deflecting his anger at the mockery with a few pleasant thoughts of the bloody violence that was probably going to ensue. "I have a new boss now, one of rather _grander_ ambition... but yes, I am here to deliver a message on her behalf. Are you prepared to hear it?"

"'spose it wouldn't hurt." Thatcher said with a cocky grin. "I doubt it matters, really - or haven't you heard? My crew is one of the big players in Drownington these days. Give us a few more months and everyone here is going to be answering to us. That means we don't have to listen to no fancy out-of-towner come to deliver some grand proclamation if we don't want to."

"The largest ant in the hive, Mister Thatcher, is as impressive as all the rest when the boot comes down." Grumblejack fired back, enjoying the way that Thatcher's eyes hardened at the insult. Really, give a man a little power and it would go straight to his head.

"Say your piece and get out, Jack." Thatcher said, his voice cold and bereft of his earlier amusement.

"It's quite simple, really." The ogre said, grinning cheerfully in anticipation. "Four words - 'Join me or die'.

A low rustle of whispering and hisses of anger ran around the warehouse at that, the thugs and brigands of the Crew reacting in their own ways to the bluntly stated ultimatum. There were rules to things like this, a kind of rough code that dominated the streets of Farholde and dominated the underclass. By sending a single messenger with such a bluntly worded demand as her first resort, Miss Barca had violated every last rule these lowborn ruffians held themselves to. There would be reprisals for this, bloody acts of revenge for the slight against their pride, quite possibly escalating into a full scale gang war. At least, that's how it would go in the normal course of things.

"Yeah, I'd heard there was a new player on the streets of late." Thatcher said in a deceptively calm voice. "Someone took over the Orphans, got you and the Baron eating out of their palms, maybe even mucking around in that big glowing rock out in the Briar. Apparently, she doesn't know how things are done around here. Tell me, Jack, this new boss of yours - she hot?"

Grumblejack blinked in surprise. Of all the responses he had been expecting, that was most certainly not among them. "I'm hardly the sort to ask, Mister Thatcher - none of your lot are big enough for me. I also don't see what relevance it has."

"Well, that's because you don't quite get how things work here either, Jack. You've been away too long." Thatcher said, his drawl returning as he spoke. "Reason I ask is that I'm a generous soul. A newcomer can't be expected to know all the little rules and customs we observe around here, and as such a few _oversights_ can be forgiven, with the correct kinds of restitution. So, what I want is for you to go back to your boss and pass on my answer."

He leaned forwards, just slightly. "Tell her that if she comes down here in person, says she's sorry from the bottom of her heart, gets down on her knees and _sucks my cock_... I'll accept her apology. Think you can remember that, Jack?"

Silence.

Slowly, Grumblejack sighed. "Ah, Mister Thatcher. That... was not a very intelligent thing to say. Downright stupid, really."

"Yeah?" Thatcher said, a nasty grin on his face as the rest of his gang drew their weapons. "Well, nor was sending one man to deliver a message like that. Run along now, Jack, like a good little lapdog, and maybe we let you go without taking your boss's idiocy out on your hide."

"An interesting suggestion." Grumblejack said thoughtfully. "I have one of my own. It goes a little something like this."

He bent his knees, leaned forwards at just the right angle, and _moved_.

The circlet that Miss Barca had given him was sufficient to hide the drastic changes that his body had undergone since exposure to the infernal energies of the Horn had awakened the true power of his bloodline. As a result, none of Thatcher's Crew were able to see the pair of large, leathery wings that protruded from his back, or the vicious claws that now jutted from the end of each of his massive fingers. It therefore came as quite a surprise to them when the eight foot tall ogre leapt off the ground and _flew_ across the space separating him from the reclining form of Mickey Thatcher.

The gang leader was cruel, cunning and operating with the benefit of plenty of experience at his line of work. Unfortunately, all of those advantages relied rather heavily on the idea that his opponent would be working from the same basic playbook as he was, and for entirely understandable reasons his reflexes were not cut out to provide useful responses when confronted by an enemy capable of spontaneously manifesting the ability to fly. Thatcher had just enough time to push himself off the boxes and stand up before Grumblejack reached him. The ogre's hands closed around his torso, took a proper grip and then began to _pull_.

The human body is capable of withstanding truly astounding levels of stress in the right circumstances, but there are always limits. In this case, it took Mickey Thatcher's right arm just under three seconds to reach those limits, at which point it parted ways with the rest of his torso in a veritable explosion of blood and gore. Overwhelmed by shock and pain, it was all Thatcher could do to gawp in utter incomprehension at the absolute ruin of his own body. Heart roaring with joy at the sheer exhilaration to be found in brutal slaughter, Grumblejack grinned at his victim, showing the full extend of his many, many teeth.

Then, before the horrified eyes of the man's subordinates, he set about beating Mickey Thatcher to death with his own severed arm.

It didn't take long, and once he was done Grumblejack was pleased to discover that the vast majority of the rest of the gang had been too overcome with shock and awe to actually do the sensible thing and run away while he was distracted. That made the next bit much easier.

"So, gentleman, as I was saying - Join, or die. Your choice."

Happily, the rest of Thatcher's Crew were a lot more cooperative.


	31. Act Seven - Ashen Nightmare

Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty Nine - Ashen Nightmares

One hundred and eleven days.

Four solid months stuck inside this squalid, miserable monument to madness and death. Four months of constant vigilance, of thrice-daily prayers to a deity she did not believe in for a mission she considered ill advised at best. Four months of careful preparation, mustering forces and laying plans so that she could believably fail her assigned task and retain her value in her master's eyes, constantly wondering if the Cardinal could somehow sense her disloyal thoughts or if acting on them constituted a failure of the oaths she had sworn. Of wondering what kind of gate might await her if it did.

Needless to say, Mirabelle Barca was not in the best of moods.

Still, from a purely material perspective things were proceeding reasonably well. The recruitment of Thatcher's Crew and a number of other minor bands of crooks had proven more than sufficient to balance out the casualties sustained in Inquisitor Harkon's raid, while the constant fiendish glow from the mountain had continually functioned to draw more and more Boggards to the tribe living in the caverns below. The Bane Wogs now numbered an even thirty or so, and while the simple limitations of local resources would likely prevent them from sustaining a much larger population, that was still more than enough for the time being. Traps had been repaired and upgraded, new supplies brought in, and with the aid of her new recruits she'd even managed to open up a few income streams independent of the Baron's resources. Not that she expected those to dry up anytime soon, but it was good manners to avoid straining the finances of an ally if one could manage it. They'd even managed to patch the hole in their security posed by the unsecured teleport throne, albeit through the simple expedient of smashing it with a sledgehammer until it stopped working.

Magister Mott had already proven himself a valuable addition to her organization, providing a sterling example of why wizards were tolerated by all but the most backwards fanatic in Talingarde. He'd studied the energies given off by the ritual and observed how they were interacting with the occult architecture of the Horn itself, and from those had managed to control and direct the lingering energy field in order to better serve their interests. Apparently the resultant layout would noticeably inhibit any attempts at drawing on the power of Mitra within the Horn, while also informing her immediately of the nature and location of any such attempts that were made, thus providing a valuable warning system which should hopefully go a long way towards countering any future raids like the Inquisitor's.

While the wizard worked on providing some arcane reinforcement to their defenses, Mira had applied herself towards bolstering her mundane resources, specifically in the form of her growing collection of thieves and other assorted lowlifes. Most of them had proven reasonably skilled at their intended trades, the less able steadily winnowed out by the demands of a life lived outside the bonds of the law, but there was a sharp difference between being able to run a protection racket and being able to stand your ground and contribute something useful when some horrible beastie or brave adventurer kicked down the door. The former was useful, but the latter was necessary, and so she'd called upon some of her older skills and set to providing them with a degree of actual professional training.

The results so far had been... adequate. She'd abandoned the notion of getting them to adopt any of the trappings of a genuine military force fairly swiftly. She wasn't a soldier any more, and if she tried to make her collection of morally flexible gutter scum act like professional soldiers she'd get nothing of real value at the expense of vastly increasing any existing rebellious tendencies. Best to let them attend to such things themselves, forming loose bands of comrades roughly analogous to squads who had the good sense to show respect to someone of her power and authority even if they didn't actually salute. Instead, she focused on polishing their actual combat skills, running them through mock spars and demonstrating the eclectic mix of formal techniques and hard-learned tricks that made up her own fighting style. Make them dangerous enough to hold their own in a fair fight and trust in their inherent good sense to make sure they never actually ended up in one and the she'd have a force worth talking about.

Fortunately, once the drama with the Inquisitor had been resolved they'd been left largely unthreatened and able to concentrate on the day to day business of guarding the Horn and completing the ritual. There had been a few minor developments as they tracked down the missing messenger that Zadaria had sent to warn of Harkon's attack and disposed of the carnivorous tree - and gods was she starting to hate the Caer Byr with a burning passion - responsible for his disappearance, but other than that the days had passed peacefully. The only other event of note had been the rise of a particularly enthusiastic street preacher in Farholde who had started proclaiming Mitra's judgement upon the sinners and calling for an army of righteous citizens to march upon the Horn and cleanse it of all evil, but Taskar had been quite capable of handling that one. The half-Orc had initially intended to simply gut the preacher and leave his body in a ditch somewhere, having merely been assigned to solve the problem in whatever fashion he deemed necessary, but halfway through his mission he'd apparently developed a sense of initiative.

The last thing they needed, after all, was to make the preacher a martyr and thus provide proof of his claims. While the local authorities lacked the force to do a great deal about her presence even without the Baron's interfering hand involved, the militant Sisters of Cynthia-Celeste were another matter entirely. Although apparently content to remain in their Abbey for the most part, they were still quite capable of providing a serious obstacle for any of her attempts to conduct operations in Farholde, and as such anything which avoided provoking them too much was a worthwhile endeavor. Thus, Taskar had instead chosen to abduct the firebrand from the small hostel he ran in the town's dingier regions, covering up the disappearance by also absconding with the 'war chest' full of donations that the preacher had been developing. Mira couldn't help but approve of such an insightful solution to the problem, and as such had pointedly not enquired about where exactly the vaguely described stash of funds had gotten to in the aftermath. She had what she needed, after all, and there was no call to antagonize a useful operative by denying him the rewards of his labours.

After all, they were now halfway through the ritual, and that meant it was time for the second sacrifice - the life of a truly pious follower of Mitra.

Looking down at the bound and gagged figure lying at her feet, Mira couldn't help but wonder at the thought processes that had driven this 'Ezekial Hawthorne' to such an ill-fated course of action. Faith was all very well and good, and she admired the courage and will of a man willing to take up arms for that faith, but surely anyone with any sense could have identified the likely response of an armed mob descending on a fully stocked and well defended fortress to some malevolent power. If he'd managed to secure some form of professional military assistance then it might have been different, but no amount of butchers, bakers and candlestick makers would have posed a serious threat to her operations in the Horn. Trained soldiers would have had a difficult time assaulting a defended fortification such as this, and she felt confident enough in the belief that a mob of civilians would have broken after the first few moments of a serious exchange and scattered into the forest, which would have in turn lead to the majority of them getting hunted down and eaten by the Boggards.

Had Ezekial thought about that when he urged his followers to march upon the Horn? Had he been expecting some unknown factor to change the calculus of the whole situation, such as outright divine intervention, or was he simply beyond thinking about such petty concerns? She could probably ask him, and he might even answer, but that would require reducing the diet of narcotics she'd had her men drug him with to the point where he could actually manage coherent thought once again. Given that she was about to carve out his heart atop an unholy alter of black stone, she didn't see much practical benefit to indulging her curiosity.

All around her, the chanting was approaching a crescendo. She'd continued her policy of having others perform that section of the ritual in her stead, given the importance that she placed upon her faith, but after some thought had instituted a policy of rotating the duty among her servants. The strategy was not without risk, for the more people who were exposed to the true nature of the ritual the more chance someone would turn against her or otherwise let slip vital information to her enemies, but on balance she was still convinced that the idea was a good one. Spreading the duty out reduced the risk that any of her men would suffer some kind of spiritual corruption from participating in such a blasphemous rite, and while she didn't know if such a thing was possible she would much rather not take the risk if it could be possibly avoided.

Pushing such thoughts aside for the moment, she knelt down and seized her captive by one of the ropes wrapped around his broad chest. With a faint grunt she hoisted him into the air and began dragging him towards the altar, marveling at the strength her god's blessings had bestowed upon her mortal frame. She was sure there would be a cost for such potent gifts in time, but all things considered they would probably be ones she was willing to pay. Her soul was already damned to Hell after her death as it stood, and she knew enough of the metaphysics of such things to understand what would likely happen to it once it was there. Asmodeus' power might be slowly transforming her into something distinctly inhuman, but given the fate that would await her if she clung stubbornly to her mortal heritage, that honestly wasn't much of a loss.

The preacher groaned faintly as she dumped him onto the bloodstained stone in front of her, as though sensing the dire energies that surrounded him even in a half-comatose state. Perhaps he could, for there was certainly no denying the foul energies that radiated from the altar or the disgustingly oily sensation of the ritual slowly corroding the pure sanctity of the Silver Seal. And that was before you looked at the small bowl next to the altar and saw that the heart she had torn out of the first sacrifice over four months ago was not only still there but still beating. It was a wretched and shriveled thing by now, more like some rotten fruit than something which belonged in the chest of a living man, but that didn't stop it from twitching in response to the dark energies running through it.

Gritting her teeth, Mira picked up the sacrificial dagger once more, hoping that the reaction wouldn't be quite so visible this time. The burning mountain and miles-high pillar of evil light had been impressive enough in a theatrical sense, but they'd also made her life noticeably harder. This whole mission was difficult enough as it was without Vetra-Kali's influence conspiring to undo all that she had accomplished every few weeks.

The chanting reached it's peak, and without a moment's hesitation Mira turned the dagger over in her hands and slammed it down into the supine form of her captive. Flesh tore and bones cracked as she worked the blade into his torso, prying apart the ribcage with ruthless force and doing her best to ignore the spurts of crimson gore that ran from the ruinous wound with every slice. It was surprisingly hard work cutting out a man's heart in any kind of reasonable timeframe, and for a moment she had to fight down the urge to laugh. How utterly fucked had her life become that she had cause to know such things?

Sighing, she reached into the bloody wound in front of her and closed one mailed fist around her prize. A few more cuts and a sharp tug sufficed to clear away the last of the flesh and sinew holding it in place, and another heart was added to the small sacrificial bowl next to her. Frowning, Mira knelt and quickly washed her hands in the small fountain of tainted water that ran from the middle of the altar, idly wondering if the feature had been installed for such practical concerns or if she was casually profaning whatever dark purpose the water was meant to serve.

"Come on, you ugly bastard." She muttered, glancing up at the looming statue of the daemon prince above her. "Either acknowledge the sacrifice or call off the rite, either works for me."

As if in response to her words, the statue seemed to suddenly take on the guise of a living thing, great arms twitching slightly and withered chest expanding as though to take a breath. A moment later it exhaled, a cloud of inky-black smoke spilling out from between the fangs of the daemon's horse-skull head. It washed over the chamber like a wave, swallowing even the enchanted light of the ever-burning torches, and in its wake came a voice like thunder.

" **Tezathra Vo!** "

In the wake of Timeon's loss Mira had been faced with little option other than to start learning how to speak the Abyssal tongue herself, and while as a language it was almost hopelessly anarchic and bereft of common laws, that particular declaration was more than clear enough for her to decipher. Tezathra Vo - 'I see'.

"I hope you do, foul thing." Mira said quietly, standing her ground as the shadows rolled past her and spilled out over the balcony beyond. "I hope you know who it is that awaits you, because I will do what the Victor could not. You will not enjoy your return to this plane, I swear it."

If the daemon heard her it did not respond, and behind her the shadows reached the open air and began rising into the air. Slowly, the skies began to dim, the sunlight fading away as the power of Vetra-Kali strangled it utterly.

-/-

The Horn of Abaddon had seen a great many deaths in the long years since it was first constructed. Many of those had been sacrifices, screaming victims tied down on black altars and bled for the honour of things no man should ever worship. Others had fallen in the last days of the cult, when the soldiers of the Victor had stormed the fortress and put everyone within to death for their crimes. No funeral rites were ever administered, no gravestones carved to commemorate their passing, but the stone itself remembered. Bathed in the constant flow of unholy energy from the dark shrine at the very peak of the mountain, the very rock itself had been indelibly marked by the cumulative weight of so much pain and suffering, and even after eighty years of silence the echoes of those dark deeds still remained.

For most of the year, such things were inconsequential, exerting no influence upon the material plane but for the occasional haunt. Things would move when they were not supposed to, screams would echo down empty corridors, sleep would be plagued by unholy dreams... but such things could be accounted for and largely ignored. Certainly the slowly growing army of thugs and brigands that had come to inhabit the Horn over the last few months had managed to cope, taking a perverse kind of pride in their ability to flourish under an oppressive atmosphere and in such macabre surroundings.

There were, however, exceptions. Even the most hard bitten of street toughs wanted nothing to do with the room on the first floor, where the walls were stained with ash and the floor covered in a fine layer of dusted flesh and heat-warped bone. There wasn't enough left after eighty years to tell who the victims had been or which side they'd been on, but the signs were clear enough. During the chaotic days of the Victor's final assault, a dozen or more people had been packed into that single room, either trying to hide or simply pushed there by the constant ebb and flow of battle. Then someone had thrown a spell in there after them, some kind of battlefield magic used to destroy entire formations of enemy troops with fire and lightning. In the confined space the effect had probably been magnified, and a dozen people had died in a single moment of burning agony. The thugs had taken one look at the evidence, concluded that there was more than enough space in the other barrack rooms for a group the size of theirs and avoided the place as best they could.

For eighty years, the forsaken memories of the men and women who had died there had lain quiescent, their souls long since passed to the afterlife but the echoes of their pain and rage preserved by the unholy aura of the Horn itself. But tonight, as the sun's light dimmed and the malevolent hunger of the daemon lord drew close once more, tonight they stirred. Driven by pain and anger and hatred they awoke from their slumber, weaving the shadows and ash together into something resembling a physical form with an instinctive ease. Dead hands scraped along cold stone walls, eyes of burning red stared out into the darkness, and as the first signs of life registered in what passed for their minds a dozen long forgotten voices began to _scream_.

-/-

It was the sound of death that woke Mira from her slumber.

With the second sacrifice made and the ritual still firmly under way she had retreated to her private chambers on the third floor to rest, intending to get a good night's sleep in preparation for the morning. She had plans to set in motion, after all, plans to lay her hands on someone of the Victor's own blood to use for the final sacrifice, and such things were much better enacted with a mind unsullied by doubt or fatigue. But she'd heard too many men dying to ever fail to recognize the sound, and when the first screams began from far below her she rolled out of bed and snatched up her sword before her eyes could even finish opening.

For a moment she wondered if she was hearing things, for it would not be the first time that the malevolent aura of the Horn had disrupted her sleep with phantom sounds or memories of things which had never happened. But... no, there it was again. The sound of metal against metal was quite distinctive, and there was a certain unmistakable quality to a scream wrenched from dying lips that she was unlikely to ever forget.

Muttering a curse the noblewoman stalked across the room and threw open the small chest resting against the far wall. Her infernal plate was there as well, resting resplendent and menacing upon its stand, but such heavy armour would take several minutes to properly don even without assistance. She [i]highly[/i] doubted she had that much time to spare, and in preparation for any number of potential emergencies or sneak attacks had made it a policy to keep some lighter protection to hand in the form of a set of hide armour. There were several craftsmen in Farholde who made a decent living out of taking the hides of any number of hideous monsters found in the Briar or over the northern border and making worthwhile protection out of them, and while her plate was undeniably superior the scaly hide of some giant lizard would do in a pinch. Growling a long string of curses to herself Mira pulled on the jacket and trousers, grabbed her heavy steel shield off of its display and strode out of the room. No more than thirty seconds after being woken and she was armed and ready for battle, though she was painfully aware that even that might one day prove too slow.

There was a section of three guards waiting outside, posted to watch over the central passageway on the third level and restrict the movement of any potential infiltrators. Clad in studded leather armour and wielding heavy crossbows they were the closest thing she had to a semi-professional force, and when she arrived they were in the process of fitting bolts to their weapons and taking up position near the stairwell leading down. She nodded to herself, pleased at their professionalism - this might still potentially be a distraction, and if that was the case then having every guard in the area run directly towards the sound of the screaming would merely be furthering the aims of their enemies. They straightened up when they saw her, and though they weren't military enough to actually salute she still recognized the expressions of men rather desperately hoping for the certainty provided by confidently given orders.

"You two, with me." She said firmly, gesturing to two of the guards and finding herself rather pleased at the speed with which they complied, falling in at her shoulders. She nodded to the third man. "Stay here, and keep an alarm horn to hand. If something makes it here, blow the horn and find somewhere you can hold out for reinforcements."

The brigand nodded, placing a fist over his heart in the closest thing she'd seen yet to an actual salute. Which might actually be a decent idea, come to think of it, since gestures of respect could easily be unique to a given organization and making sure to distinguish between her forces and the standing military was probably a sensible long term plan. In the meantime she had an attack to repel, and with that in mind headed for the teleport circle on this floor at a steady jog, her subordinates following along behind. Taking the stairs would require more time than she probably had and ran the risk of needing to actually fight in them, which given the cramped quarters involved would not be particularly pleasant for anybody. Meanwhile the meditation chamber on this floor boasted a teleport circle wide enough to accommodate all three of them at once, and would move them between the levels in an instant.

Arriving at her destination Mira took up position in the circle, glancing at the thick curtains she'd had hung up to hide the long lines of abyssal text carved into the walls. Presumably the phrases etched there had allowed the death priests who used to dwell here focus their minds on whatever foul rituals they wanted to conduct, but after staring at them for too long had sent one of her men dramatically mad she'd decided the world was probably better off without such dark wisdom. She would have gouged it out of the stone entirely if she could, but Magister Mott had suggested that the texts might actually serve a role in focusing the planar energies suffusing the whole mountain, and she was in no hurry to find out what happened if you disrupted something like that. Shaking her head, she focused her mind back on her mission, giving her soldiers a moment to take up the proper positions at her flanks and heft their weapons in readiness. Once she was satisfied, she called the pass phrase to mind and braced herself.

"Yah'Vo."

There was a flash of light, and brief wrenching sensation, and then they found themselves in a place that could easily be mistaken for one of the nine layers of Hell.

The temple on the first floor of the Horn had never been a particularly welcoming place, what with all the murals and statuary faithfully depicting armies of daemons and their triumphant victory over the forces of good, but right now it was somehow even less homely than ever before. The air was hot and filled with flakes of ash, while embers danced across the floor and the shadows behind every pillar coiled and writhed like living things. She could hear distant screaming and the sound of a roaring fire, and scarcely had she opened her mouth than she was assaulted by the stench of cooking flesh. And underneath it all was the distinctive clamor of open combat.

All around the temple, those among her forces who had been on duty this night were locked in battle with what seemed to be a collection of burned corpses. Arms packed with charred flesh clawed at steel and leather in desperate attempt to reach the succulent meat below, mouths opened in silent screams that revealed fire-blackened teeth. It was impossible to tell just how many of the undead there were, though Mira was prepared to settle on a provisional figure of 'far too fucking many', but so far they weren't having much luck against her forces as they otherwise might have. The primary factor for that seemed to be Taskar Twelve-Knives, who had apparently been in command of the local guard detachment when this all went down and had promptly rallied them into something approaching an effective defense. As she watched, the half-Orc slammed one of his blades through the skull of an attacking corpse-thing with a sick crunch, letting it drop before turning and roaring orders at the nearest of her soldiers as he coordinated a fighting retreat.

The flash of light that presaged their arrival had drawn some attention, and already Mira could see several of the undead peeling away from hurling themselves at the improvised formation and lurching towards her. One had already clambered up onto the dais, a swirling collection of ash and bones that surely couldn't hold itself together without the aid of magic, but scarcely had it done so than the brigand at her shoulder raised his crossbow and put a bolt through what passed for its skull. She nodded her thanks as it collapsed into fragments once more, then waved her escort forwards to join the defense before hurrying over towards her lieutenant.

"Taskar!" She called, grabbing his attention before getting close in order to prevent the stressed half-Orc from stabbing her on reflex. "What the fuck is going on?"

"I have no gods-damned idea." The rogue growled back, sweeping his gaze across the hastily coordinated defensive lines even as he briefed her. "Some ghost-thing showed up and began killing everyone, summoning these things as it went. We've lost at least half a dozen men already, and I don't know how the rest of the guys on this floor are holding out."

Mira nodded grimly. A surprise attack from within the fortifications was always going to be a hard thing to counter, but if there was only one primary enemy involved and the rest were simply its creations then they had a better chance than they otherwise might. Her soldiers could handle the lesser foes, but the chances were they'd need her power to take on the main threat. "The ghost - where is it now?"

Taskar was saved from having to provide an answer by the arrival of the thing itself. Keening with rage and hunger, a column of swirling ash in the vague shape of a man entered the temple at the head of another dozen of so of its construct-minions, likely drawn here by the sound of ongoing combat. It was perhaps the height of an ogre and swathed in a halo of living flames, stalking forwards with a kind of predatory intent that told of the single-minded hunger driving it. Mira barely even had to glance at the thing to know it wasn't sentient - no true ghost, this, but the psychic residue of some long-passed unfortunate who had met a sufficiently unpleasant end as to stain the world with their terror and rage. Unfortunate in some ways, for it meant that she couldn't really negotiate with it or distract it from trying to kill them all, but it also made things a lot simpler.

"Deal with the little ones." She told Taskar, hefting her sword. "I'll take care of the big one."

The half-Orc just grunted, but given the way in which he immediately drew another pair of knives from his seemingly limitless supply and threw himself back into the fight he was apparently happy enough with the division of labour. Gritting her teeth, Mira focused on her enemy and glanced around the hall as she planned her route of advance. There should hopefully be an opening... ah, there.

Not allowing herself the slightest moment of hesitation or doubt, the fallen captain threw herself into a headlong charge, aiming for the section of the enemy ranks where the numbers of their lesser minions were the most scattered and disorganized. Only a single corpse-thing tried to bar her path, and a quick swipe of her sword saw it falling to the ground in two separate pieces. Then she was through, and rapidly closing upon her target.

If the creature saw her it did not seem to care, instead focusing on slashing with its overly long hands at several of her subordinates who had gotten too close. Growling, Mira decided she was quite unwilling to tolerate that - they were _her_ people, damn it, and she had put too much effort into recruiting and training them to see them struck down by some jumped up spirit. With a thought she summoned the power of her god, allowing the sensation of burning power to fill her body and power her limbs. She had been able to subdue the Thrice-Damned with this power, and whatever else her enemy was it still appeared to be some variety of undead. With that in mind Mira mustered her will and directed it forwards, unleashing a hammer-blow of sheer focused intent that was as unyielding as it was hard to describe.

The ghost staggered as though struck by something large and heavy, but to her surprise it did not immediately fall. Apparently being near-mindless with rage and hunger was an advantage in this case, for while it lacked any kind of actual willpower that she could feel, it burned with enough raw _fury_ to achieve much the same effect. Still, at the very least she had caught its attention, and with a rasping wail it turned away from her men and focused its attention upon her.

Roaring a battle cry of her own she hit it at a dead sprint, putting all of her strength and momentum behind a single savage chop at what served as the creature's leg. The enchanted steel blade sheared right through, scattering the burning fragments of ash out behind it in an elongated wave, but apparently being an incorporeal spirit meant you didn't have to care about such trivialities as needing a physical form to stay upright. The spirit hissed with a voice like a thousand serpents and lashed out with a clawed hand, and Mira only just managed to raise her shield in time to catch the incoming blow before it could land.

It was a rather unpleasant surprise to discover that mere mortal steel was entirely ineffective when it came to protecting you from immaterial claws. The spirit's outstretched limb passed straight through the shield without leaving a mark and sunk deep into the flesh of her arm, unholy power searing her straight to the bone and leaving long burn marks all the way from her elbow to her fingertips. Mira grunted, determined not to cry out in pain in front of so many of her subordinates if she could possibly avoid it. Instead she focused her will once more, calling on the training that Cardinal Thorn had given her and _using_ the pain rather than allowing it to hamper her.

The spirit staggered backwards in the same manner as if she had struck it with a warhammer, releasing her forearm as it keened in distress. Growling, she pressed the attack with a pair of horizontal chops, inflicting deep wounds to the general torso region that bled long trails of smoke and embers into the air. It tried to counter-attack, but she knew what to expect now and stayed well clear of the slashing claws. In retrospect she probably should have taken the time to don her plate, for the enchanted steel would have actually offered some actual protection, but at the time she'd been expecting mortal foes or some kind of monster, not the unquiet dead. Just went to show, really, that the gods all delighted in surprising you in their own ways.

The ghost was angry, ferocious and possessed of the natural advantages of a semi-solid state, but it was still all but mindless. It knew nothing of tactics or fighting techniques, and lacked the ability to recognize when it should retreat and switch to hit and run tactics rather than slugging it out with her in the middle of the temple. Now that she'd finally gotten to grips with it the outcome was all but certain, and while it managed to land another hit or two of its own she was far too tough to allow even the ravening spiritual energies of the unquiet dead to put her down. It took longer than she liked, extended by the lack of anything resembling an actual weak spot in her opponent's incorporeal form, but eventually not even absolute rage and bloodlust could hold the creature together in the face of the punishment she was inflicting. It shrieked, shimmered and then fell apart in a shower of burning ectoplasm, followed a moment later by its surviving construct-minions.

Silence fell.

Breathing heavily, her muscles burning and the pain of bone-deep wounds beginning to make themselves felt, Mirabelle Barca spat out a mouthful of blood and looked around the smoke-filled hall.

"I fucking _hate_ this place."

-/-

Farholde was quite possibly the most depressing town Fineas Greenhold had ever visited, and considering how many settlements he had visited in the past few decades of adventuring that was quite a significant accomplishment. He supposed there was better justification for such a mood than most might have, no matter how much it grated upon him. Between the ominous glowing mountain on the horizon, the shadowy forest full of monsters just a mile or so outside the walls, the ongoing plague of serial killers and other criminals and, of course, the distant but viciously bloody war against the bugbears there was no shortage of threats, most of which the inhabitants were utterly helpless to do anything about. That such a situation would create a pervasive and all-consuming air of listless depression was perhaps not surprising, but that didn't mean it was any nicer to actually experience in person.

Still, the gnome reflected, at least the beer was good. It was likely one of the benefits of being a trading town connected to a river - you could find a variety of supplies here that it would be all but possible to match anywhere else in the general region, and quality booze was no exception. It was that surfeit of supplies that had drawn the Banner Verdant, as his little group liked to call themselves, here in the first place. They'd been planning on heading north over the border, taking advantage of the way that most of the monsters up there had moved south with the invasion force, planning to strike at some valuable targets and secure a choice bit of loot, and you didn't do something like that without making sure that you were properly prepared before setting off. His companions had spent large parts of the day trawling the markets for anything useful, while Fineas had started talking to the locals in search of interesting rumours or useful leads, and now that night was starting to fall they'd regrouped in the inn to share their progress and plan their next move.

Smiling, he looked over at the bar, where Angus Madthorn had just finished piling their drinks onto a wooden tray. The dwarf's broad frame and powerfully muscled arms allowed him to carry all four tankards back across the hall without the slightest sign of strain, mute testimony to the raw strength he normally put to use cleaving his way through all manner of horrible monsters and other assorted bad guys. Fineas waited for his old friend to set the tray down on their table before reaching over and taking one of the flagons, handling the oversized container with the ease of one who has lived all of his life in a world sized for people somewhat larger than him.

"So, I think I can safely say this is not a happy town." He commented before taking a mouthful of his beer, smacking his lips together in appreciation. "I mean, I must have heard a dozen different stories of impending doom in the last hour alone. How about the rest of you?"

"There is much evil in the Caer Byr, and the people here know it." Brunhild offered, taking her own drink but declining to taste it just yet. The Druid seemed to find that personally offensive, but considering her heritage and the source of her powers that was perhaps unsurprising. To someone like her the great forest should have been a place of awe and wonder, dangerous enough in its own way of course but never home to such extensive corruption and death. Fineas had known her the longest of any of them, and already he could tell that she was aching to do something about it. Which was not a cause he was unsympathic to, all things considered, but hopefully they'd be able to find something more useful to do than simply marching into the tree-line and challenging the first beastie they found to a fight.

"We have company." Vethia Dora, the fourth member of their band, said in a quiet voice. Her exotic looks and golden hair were almost completely hidden under her deep green cloak, but the elven ranger still commanded a field of view that neatly covered all likely lines of attack. It was the sort of habitual paranoia one picked up when they made their living hunting monsters or raiding ancient tombs for their gold, but in this particular case it wasn't a threat she spotted so much as a potential client.

Interested, Fineas followed her gaze without seeming to, hiding his attention behind his flagon as he raised it to his lips. There, at the door of the inn, stood an old man in the robes of what might have been a local priest or traveling missionary. He was looking around the interior of the inn as though searching for someone, and it was only when his eyes alighted on their table that he smiled and began making his way over.

"Well, well. This should be interesting." Fineas commented quietly. "You all OK with me doing the talking?"

The other three nodded, as he had known they would. Truly, he didn't really have to ask, since conducting negotiations on behalf of their little group and generally handling all of the more delicate social tasks was essentially what he _did_ , but Fineas always made a habit of asking them them anyway. They were his friends as well as his comrades, after all, and that demanded a certain level of consideration be given to their thoughts and opinions beyond the merely practical.

"Ah... hello." The old man said as he drew close, looking somewhat uncertain. "Are you... I'm sorry, I don't know the specific name. I'm looking for those 'who come under a banner of green'."

Fineas's eyes sharpened and he leaned forwards, [i]feeling[/i] the slight increase in tension around the table. It wasn't every day someone sought them out who already knew their name, and those who did either tended to be particularly wealthy patrons or local hostiles looking to eliminate a potential threat before it could strike.

"Well, my good man, we're called the Banner Verdant. I imagine we qualify." The gnome said cautiously, calling on the magic in his blood just in case. "How can we help you?"

"Oh thank the gods." The priest said, all but collapsing into a nearby chair. "I've been waiting for you to arrive for... weeks now. I... no, I'm sorry, I should start at the beginning."

He took a breath, as though steeling himself for something. "My name is Father Mathias. I'm a local priest - no one special, but I do what I can to help look after my flock. As I'm sure you've noticed, Farholde is a troubled town of late, and I believe I know the cause."

"A lot of people seem to know the cause, my good sir. I've heard at least half a dozen theories already." Fineas pointed out, though not unkindly. No sense in being rude if you didn't have to be, after all.

"Well, yes, but I've been... well, I've been having visions." The old man said, already looking defensive. Fineas merely nodded, for he could hardly lay blame upon a man for such a thing when he himself had been known to experience similar things in the past. "They've been coming while I sleep, and they're all focused around the Horn of Abaddon - that burning mountain on the horizon. I... they are doing terrible things out there, things which will be the doom of this entire nation if they are not stopped. I see them every night in my dreams - the ogre, the fallen knight, the daemon. Such... terrible things."

He paused there, lost in memories for a long moment, and it was only when Fineas cleared his throat that the old man snapped back out of it and continued. "Ah... yes, sorry. Ever since the omens started I've been getting these visions, showing me what is going on inside the Horn in... far more detail than I would ever want to know. I've seen the things that are guarding that place, the ritual that is going on in there, and more than that - I've seen how to stop them. I can only assume this is a sign from the heavens."

"You have my sympathies, father - such a burden must be a heavy one to bear. But where do we come in?" Fineas said slowly, though he was fairly sure he already knew.

"I am not a fool, Master Gnome." The old man said with a sad smile. "I am too old and too frail to do anything about the Horn myself, even with this information the heavens have seen fit to grant me. I would take it to the authorities, but the guard are stretched enough as it is and the garrison at Hammarhall has been stripped to the bones to contribute men to the war effort. I need to find champions who I can provide this information to, and trust that they can do what I cannot. I prayed to Mitra for guidance, and he showed me an image - four figures beneath a banner of green. I am... well, I am hoping you are the ones that I seek, for I fear we may not have time to find any others."

Slowly, Fineas looked around at the rest of his companions. They were all maintaining professionally blank expressions, but he knew them well enough by now to guess at the conclusions they would likely reach. They were in the adventuring profession for the money and the excitement, but that didn't mean they would turn down the chance to do some real good in the world if it was presented to them. As, apparently, it was right now.

"Well, Father Mathias, we're as opposed to the works of evil folks as anyone else." He said cautiously. "Why don't you share with us this information you have, and we'll see what we can do. I make no promises, mind."

"Oh, no, of course." Mathias said, his whole being practically singing with relief. "Please, that you would even consider this is more than I can rightly ask. Here, I wrote everything down as best I could - and I made these potions, just in case they turned out to be helpful."

With that the priest reached into the pockets of his robes and began withdrawing sizeable bundles of paper, each covered in notes written in a shaky but legible hand. There were notes and summaries, maps of the Horn's interior and sketches of the most notable defenders, observations on mechanical defenses and details on the unholy ritual that was apparently being conducted there as they spoke. All of this and more did the old man provide, as well as a small satchel full of potent healing potions that he handed over free of charge. Carefully the Banner Verdant looked over what they had, and it quickly became obvious that if even half of what the old man believed was going on was correct... well, they didn't really have a choice. You couldn't call yourself good people and then simply look away when something like this crossed your path.

Eventually, the old man made his excuses and rose to leave, though he did provide them with the address of his parish church where they could contact him if needs be.

"I shall pray for your success." He declared happily, pleased to have found some truly righteous souls who might be able to save his town.

"That would be most welcome, father. We'll take all the help we can get." Fineas said carefully, watching as the priest bowed to them all and the left, humming cheerfully to himself. Once he was gone, the gnome glanced at the elf and nodded.

Smiling, Vethia Dora slipped out of her chair and followed their helpful patron out the door.

-/-

The old man moved surprisingly fast for his apparent age, taking a winding path through the town that would have sufficed to conceal his trail from any normal pursuer. Unfortunately for him, Vethia Dora was a elven tracker, and she had spent years hunting prey far more elusive through far less forgiving terrain than this. She came close to losing him once or twice, distracted by the need to remain hidden just in case, but with a few creative shortcuts and the benefits of her own experience she managed to keep up with him all the way to his destination.

As a result she had a perfect view of him ducking into a small side alley and shedding the magical disguise that shrouded him, the image of the old priest fading away and being replaced by that of a much younger human male with long dark hair. He made sure to check his surroundings carefully before heading on, but for all his caution he was still a human and thus had to rely on senses which were nowhere near as sharp as Vethia's. She followed him for several streets more, and finally watched as he was greeted by a strange foreign woman dressed in white.

"I trust you succeeded?" She said, her voice edged with both cautious concern and eager anticipation, reaching up with one pale hand to stroke the white riven perched upon her shoulder.

"It is done." The man said in tones of distinct satisfaction. "The Ninth is finished."


	32. Act Seven - Treachery's Reward

Way of the Wicked Chapter Thirty - Treachery's Reward

The Caer Byr was a primeval wilderness, filled with terrifying monsters and all manner of dangerous spirits. There were serpents with bodies the size of trees and eagles the size of buildings to prey upon them. There were trees which walked like men and twisted chimera-things that could turn flesh to stone with a glance. In the darkest corners of the swamplands one could even find dragons, black of scale and possessed of the same cruelty and venom as their sire, the great Chargammon. It was, in short, the sort of place where no mortal man could possibly hope to survive for long, let alone make a home.

But mankind was resilient and adaptable, and for centuries the people known as the Iraen had done just that. Brunhild Stormdottir was a descendent of theirs, a practitioner of their druidic ways, and with her aid the Banner Verdant were more than able to survive in even the most hostile wilderness. They had been out here for several days now, having left Farholde as swiftly as possible once they had purchased their supplies and confirmed their destination. Adventuring groups that expressed an interest in the Horn of Abaddon had been displaying an unfortunate tendency to turn up dead in a back alley of late, and the small team had been plying their trade for far too long to willingly leave themselves vulnerable to such a thing.

There had been some debate about whether or not they wanted to pursue this quest at all, given Vethia's report and the deception it had unveiled, but in the end Fineas had managed to persuade his teammates that it was worth the risk. This little setup had all the hallmarks of a classic villainous scheme - two groups of evil doers supplying information and covert aid to a team of heroic patsies in order to strike at their rivals while preserving their own deniability. The Banner had seen this sort of thing before, and in fairness to their duplicitous employer it was usually a fairly sensible course of action. Presumably whichever faction currently occupied the Horn was too strong or well prepared for a direct physical confrontation to be worthwhile, but supplying maps and other information to a group of convenient heroes cost nothing and might very easily gain them everything.

If that was the case, then it only made sense to assume that the information provided was, if not entirely accurate, then at least complete enough to provide a serious benefit to the adventurers in question. You didn't equip your patsies with flawed plans, after all, because then they would fail and you'd be back to square one. The obvious exception was if you simply intended to use the information as bait for a trap, which was why the Banner was currently hiding out in the Briar while Vethia took a closer look at the Horn itself in order to make sure the information held up. If it did, and Fineas was quietly confident that it would, then they would have a serious chance of striking a mortal injury to the ongoing operation here and disrupting the vile ritual currently being conducted within, a worthy end in itself that was merely enhanced by the possibility of obtaining all manner of treasure and other assorted loot in the process. The focal point of the ritual was supposed to be three emeralds the size of a man's fist, after all, and Fineas could already think of several interesting things he could do with the money such relics would sell for.

And once that most noble and profitable goal had been achieved, why, they might just find themselves paying a second visit to Farholde in the very near future. Fineas wasn't a native of Talingarde, but he was still a big believer in doing one's civic duty, and there was always something so very satisfying about proving to some overly clever villain just how flawed their grand masterful schemes actually were.

There was a soft [i]thud[/i] from the direction of the perimeter, and the gnome looked up from his private journal with a smile. That would be Vethia returning, most likely, and in that case it was almost time for them to get underway. Either the information was accurate and they would be striking the Horn, or it was flawed and they would be returning to Farholde to make their displeasure known to their oh-so-clever informant. Humming merrily to himself, Fineas scribbled the last few words in his journal and then stowed it away in his pack once more.

Time to get to work.

-/-

Whoever was in charge here, Fineas had to admit they knew a thing or two about defending a fortified position. The notes they'd been given described a human woman of military bearing clad in infernal armour, which seemed to suggest a follower of one of the more warlike lords of darkness, and one of the first things she had apparently ordered her followers to do was to cut down a large swath of the trees surrounding her mountain fastness, clearing the treeline out to a hundred yards in all directions and denying any attackers the use of a canopy to conceal their approach. Chances were she'd conscripted the Boggard tribe that lived in the caverns at the base of the Horn to do the bulk of the work, because the fallen tree trunks all bore the marks of crude hatchets and had been left in place once felled rather than dragged to anywhere in specific. Brunhild had been furious at the desecration, but thankfully not so furious as to abandon their plan altogether.

The four of them would never be able to mount an effective assault on something of this size all by their lonesome, and they didn't have the time or the contacts to rally an appropriately sized group of enemies to help them. Instead, they were going to infiltrate the place and fight their opponents piecemeal if at all possible, using the information provided to determine the best way to avoid any fixed defenses and identify the most vulnerable spots to strike at. The objective was not to kill them all, for that was almost certainly impossible. Instead, they would aim to disrupt the ritual and loot the treasury, rendering their enemy's efforts entirely pointless and thwarting them comprehensively. If they could take out the villain's leaders in the bargain, the rank and file would probably just fall apart and return to a life of petty thievery and racketeering - not an ideal result by any means, but a better situation for the kingdom as a whole than whatever they were planning on accomplishing here originally.

Step one, of course, was to cross the killing fields outside the Horn and actually make it inside. Fortunately, while the trees had been chopped down the Boggards had lacked either the motivation or the capability to do much about the thick layer of undergrowth that normally grew beneath the canopy itself. Normally any attempt to sneak through it would produce rustling and other signs of movement that would betray their position to anyone watching, but both Brunhild and Vethia had enough magic to compensate for such things. Brunhild whispered to the plants in the language of their people while Vethia cast a spell that hid their tracks from all but the most potent magic, and together they allowed their little group to creep up to the Horn without disturbing so much as a single blade of grass. The fact that they waited until the sun was low in the sky and thus filled the land with shadows was only a bonus.

Up close, the Horn of Abaddon was an even less welcoming place. The stone almost seemed to ooze corruption, and that was before you took the strange eldritch runes into account. Hesitantly Brunhild reached out and laid one hand against the rock, carefully avoiding the parts of it that were glowing, and closed her eyes as she called up her bond with all things natural. After a moment she shook her head and pulled her hand back, forcing Fineas to suppress a sigh. They'd been considering plans for effecting their own entrance point into the Horn, one that would take that around any pre-existing defenses, and one of the options they'd considered involved Brunhild using her quasi-divine magic to soften the rocks and cause them to fall away in areas where an internal passageway passed too close to the surface. Apparently the residual energy from the ritual infusing the stone made that unfeasible, however, and while it had never been more than a possibility it was still disheartening not to have the option available. Still, they hadn't come as far as they had by giving up at the first hurdle, and with that thought in mind the Banner Verdant nodded to one another and unslung their climbing equipment.

Doubtless there were sentries stationed at every possible entrance to the Horn who could catch them if they tried making use of a conventional viewpoint, and indeed their useful source had hinted at 'visions' of cruel men in leather and steel standing guard over the main passages. But it was always surprising just how easy it was for a group of guardians to fall into complacency, to stand watch on the known and viable methods of entry and entirely forget that their hypothetical opponents might not actually be stupid enough to blunder in the front door. In the case of the Horn of Abaddon, this particular weakness manifested in an utter lack of any serious defenses posted that would prevent someone from literally just climbing up the outside.

Which was not to say that doing so was an easy task by any means. While the equipment they had brought with them helped make the climb doable and the sheer bulk of the mountain concealed them from any observers, it was still something in the region of two hundred feet between the ground level where they started and their intended entry point - the ornately decorated balcony that jutted out from the third level of the interior fortress. Fineas scraped his hands more than once, and he had to grit his teeth to avoid crying out in disgust at the strange crawling sensation that covered his skin whenever he came into contact with one of the gently glowing runes cut into the rock. Still, as unpleasant as it was it was still infinitely better than slogging his way all the way up here through the actual established passageways, which would naturally involve fighting through an unholy number of defenders and all of their pre-established traps, so he swallowed his complaints and kept on climbing.

The sun had disappeared entirely behind the horizon by the time they reached the level they were after, but none of them were cursed with senses so weak as to make such a thing an actual issue. Though in truth the fact that the Horn was gently glowing at all times would have probably made finding their way considerably easier even if their eyes were as keen as the average human. Thankfully there was a small ridge just a few meters above their intended entry point which ran far enough around the exterior of the Horn to serve as an adequate resting and observation platform, and in silence they all settled down there for a bit in order to get their breath back. Angus passed around a flask of water for the rest of them to refresh themselves, and Fineas considered volunteering some actual rations as well before good sense returned. They couldn't afford to get too comfortable here, if such a state was even possible while in proximity to such a veritable temple to evil. Seriously, whoever these people were they had to be seriously messed up in the head to stay somewhere like this long-term.

With such important considerations in mind, Fineas lead his little group of friends around the side of the mountain and to a point where they could see the third floor balcony. It was a ridiculously elaborate thing, utterly encrusted with foul iconography and stylized representations of the twisted beings the Sons of the Pale Horseman worshipped, but such details were of profoundly secondary importance when compared to the gangly metallic figure standing guard there.

Fineas frowned, deeply displeased at the discovery. He liked to think of himself as a learned sort, and as such he was quite capable of recognizing the complicated internal structure and distinctive mechanical flourishes of an alchemical golem, but such knowledge didn't exactly endow him with great confidence. While this particular specimen seemed to be somewhat more corroded and poorly put together than the few examples he had seen or heard of in the past, it was still doubtlessly capable of rather extreme violence if pressed, and likely possessed the same damnable immunity to magic that most constructs of its kind shared. He could see a brain floating in the reinforced case atop its half-rusted torso, but that didn't mean it was in any way vulnerable to the subtle magics he usually preferred to employ. A fight here could cost them precious time, as well as alerting the other defenders to their presence.

Better not to make it a fight at all, then.

Smiling, Fineas turned to his companions and outlined his plan with a quick flurry of hand gestures. The Banner Verdant had been adventuring together for some considerable time now, and one of the little tricks they'd managed to pick up during those long years was this carefully composed series of hand gestures that functioned as a private language of sorts. It didn't have the full flexibility of an actual language, of course, and you couldn't carry on a proper conversation with it, but for arranging tactical plans and conveying vital information while on a job it was more than sufficient.

Angus Madthorn bared his teeth in a savage grin as the plan was laid out, nodding in enthusiastic approval even as stowed his heavy battle axe with the rest of his equipment on the ledge behind him, while Vethia and Brunhild just looked equal parts amused and exasperated. Their nominal leader always did prefer oddly creative plans like this, but they tended to work and as such generally went unopposed. Vethia went to work tying a sturdy rope around Angus' brawny chest, Elf and Dwarf working together in silent partnership to make sure that they were solidly anchored just in case this whole thing went wrong, while Brunhild silently intoned a prayer to the ancient powers she worshipped and touched the two of them lightly on the shoulder. Divine magic, infused with the primal vitality of the ancient wild, flowed into her teammates and bolstered their strength in a way that few other things could. In the meantime, Fineas took up a steady position at the edge of the improved platform and carefully focused on the arcane energies running through his gnomish blood. A quick flurry of hand gestures confirmed that everybody was ready, and with that their hastily assembled plan went into action.

With a confidence born of one who has trusted companions supporting him, Angus stepped up to the edge of the ridge and allowed himself to almost fall over it, Vethia bracing herself and using her magically enhanced strength to lower him slowly towards the balcony below. The golem didn't notice them, for while it had an organic brain it lacked the ability to reason in the same way as a true sapient and thus literally couldn't conceive of such an unorthodox approach. The fact that it lacked anything in the way of actual ears probably helped, when added to the fact that it was looking in entirely the wrong direction for its stolen eyes to alert it to the threat. Fineas watched his friend's progress, calculated the best moment to act, then focused his will and made a swift gesture.

Some sorcerers could fling balls of fire or conjure lightning from the heavens, but Fineas Greenhold had never been that sort of man. He was a strong believer in using the most efficient amount of power and effort possible when pursuing his goals, a trait which some condemned as lazy but which had always ended up paying dividends throughout his life. In this particular circumstance, he set aside the flashy and dramatic shows of power his kin might favour and instead covered the ground under the golem's feet in a thin layer of magically conjured grease.

The golem tilted its body to study the sudden change in texture of the ground underfoot, and in that moment Angus Madthorn touched down behind it. The dwarf did not hesitate, rushing forwards with a low growl of effort as magical power burned through his limbs, aiming for a tackle that was as inelegant as it was effective. He caught the golem in the lower back and sent it skidding away across the suddenly far more slippery floor with vastly greater ease than such a maneuver would have normally required. The construct reached the end of the available space before its stolen brain could even begin to understand what was going on and was swiftly swallowed by the night as it tumbled down the side of the mountain.

Chuckling, Fineas began to clamber down the side of the rock face towards the balcony himself, followed shortly thereafter by Vethia and Brunhild. The ranger carried Angus' supplies and weapon with her, handing them back to the dwarf the moment her own feet were on the ground once more, and together they made their way inside. Hopefully the construct would bounce off something sufficiently robust and shatter itself all over the ground far away from any watching sentries, but there was always the chance that it would be seen and an alarm would be raised before they could get entirely clear. That would make their mission significantly harder, and as such they really needed to get a move on.

Their first obstacle was a trap door set into the floor just inside the entrance to the third floor, which presumably indicated that the people who had built this place had sufficiently frequent encounters with flying foes or creative assassins to see such a thing as a worthwhile investment. They had no idea if it would drop them into a cell or onto a row of spikes, and quite frankly Fineas had no intention of finding out. The catch was easy enough to find it you knew what to look for, thankfully - pressing in the three eyes of one of the daemons depicted on the balcony carvings disabled the trap with a soft click, and then they were inside.

After sunset, the interior of the Horn on this level was largely abandoned, a factor that Fineas had been counting on when they were planning their assault. He knew from their intelligence that the treasure vault was on this level, likely guarded by at least a token sentry at all times, and if they had the time the Banner fully intended to loot it for everything they could carry. More important was the ritual itself though, both for the valuable emeralds that served as its focal point and for the sheer inhuman evil that it represented. Fineas was a mercenary soul, it was true, but he had precisely no intention of allowing something as vile as this to be completed if he had the slightest ability to stop it. Fortunately, thanks to in-fighting in the ranks of their foe, it seemed that he actually did. Ah, evil-doers, never change...

Still smiling, Fineas lead his friends through the humble looking doorway on the right hand side of the hallway. There was a landing beyond, connected to a long spiral staircase which would allow them to go up or down as required, and much as they had expected it was currently guarded. A street thug in leather armour was leaning against the far wall, his expression one of supreme boredom as he wiled away the hours left on his shift, and no sooner had he glanced up to see them then Vethia had strung her bow and planted an arrow in his skull. Fineas winced slightly at the cold hearted execution, but he couldn't really blame his teammate for it. They didn't have time to try and convince everyone here to stand down, and there was a better than even chance they'd fail and die if they tried it. He doubted he'd ever be entirely happy with such things though.

Shaking his head he turned towards the staircase, glancing up and down for a moment to make sure that no-one else was currently using it, then led his merry little band up towards their destination. The climb was long, arduous and involved exposure to far too many unholy symbols and disturbingly enthusiastic murals of infernal depravities for his liking, and Fineas couldn't help but wonder what sort of madness had possessed the original architects of this place when they had built it. Two hundred feet of stairs? What could possibly make someone think that was a good idea? Still, he'd come too far and seen too much to let a little physical exercise slow him down, and with that thought to motivate him he just about managed to keep up with the rest of the party during the ascent.

The Sanctum at the very top of the stairs was, amazingly, even more sinister and tasteless than the internal decor in the rest of the evil doom fortress. Everything from the twisted murals to the gigantic blood-stained altar practically screamed about the poor life choices and questionable sanity of whoever had first built this place, and Fineas Greenhold swiftly came to the conclusion that the whole place could probably be vastly improved by the liberal application of holy fire. Alas that such a gift was not within their capability to provide, but all things considered he felt that raw physical violence would probably work just as well.

There were two more street soldiers standing guard up here, but they'd been halfway through a game of dice when the adventurers arrived and as such were entirely unprepared to be confronted by an angry Dwarf armed with a magical battle axe. In fairness to them very few people had ever been prepared to encounter that sort of enemy, and ten seconds after doing so they too joined the growing list of people who hadn't been able to properly adjust to the surprise of meeting Angus Madthorn before their horrible and violent demise.

Shaking his head Fineas glanced around the interior of he sanctum for a moment, then focused on the ominous statue at its centre.

"Well, look at that." He marveled. "Just like they said. Three emerald eyes, each as big as a man's fist. We've made payday today, my friends. Someone help me get them out of the statue."

"I would love to." A refined and aristocratic voice said from somewhere behind them. "Unfortunately, I rather need those to stay exactly where they are."

-/-

Adventurers.

There were adventurers in the sanctum. Four of them to be precise, moving with the kind of instinctive coordination that only true veterans of their lethal trade could muster. That was concerning enough in and of itself, but the real problem was the utter lack of an ongoing alarm. Combined with what the gnome had said, it seemed she was dealing with a traitor in the ranks.

Gritting her teeth, Mira considered her options. It wasn't that complicated, for while she honestly wouldn't be too upset if they succeeded in their evident goal to steal the Eyes of Vetra-Kali and disrupt the ritual, Lord Thorn would be most upset with her if she didn't even try to stop them. This was not at all what she'd been expecting when she'd made her way up here earlier, intent on conducting a surprise inspection of the guards posted here. The gifts of Asmodeus had rendered her invisible to the eye and thus she had been able to uncover her soldiers gambling while on duty, but she'd still been trying to decide what precisely to do about it when the adventurers arrived and rendered the whole question somewhat moot.

For a moment, she was tempted to remain silent and hidden and just let them take the damned emeralds. But no, pride and pragmatism both forbade such a spineless course of action. The immediately obvious alternative was to attack now while her concealment offered an appropriate level of surprise, but that would mean engaging in a four on one fight to the death with veteran adventurers. Not the ideal situation to find oneself in by any measure.

Still, at least she was clad in her full infernal regalia, having opted for the intimidating set of plate armour over her normal attire in hopes of eliciting the appropriate reactions from anyone caught slacking off. Though when you combined such good fortune with the sheer timing involved in getting here shortly before her enemies, one had to wonder whether the divine were taking a more active interest in things than normal.

Hmm. If that was the case, then perhaps...

Not allowing herself the time to reconsider, she dropped her spell with a thought and announced herself, not with violence but with words. The reaction of the adventurers was quite amusing, in a childish sort of way, for they all seemed to jump about three feet in the air and spun to face her so quickly they were in danger of falling over.

"Ah." The gnome, possibly their leader or at the very least their spokesperson, said in a nervous tone of voice. "You must be that dark knight we've heard so much about. You're the lady in charge, I take it?"

"I am." Mira admitted with a nod, glancing pointedly at the sprawled bodies of her slain underlings. "Which makes me rather upset to find intruders such as yourselves wandering around unsupervised inside my fortress. Killing my men, and apparently intending to steal my emeralds. That's not very polite."

"'Intend', nothing." The elf said in a cold voice, turning and yanking two of the Eyes of Vetra-Kali out of their sockets and tossing one of them to the Dwarf. "We're taking these, stopping you and getting out of here. That's the end of it. You don't get to delay us by monologuing in the hopes the rest of your guards turn up before you're done."

Mira frowned, an expression that only deepened when the fourth member of their band - dressed in woven plant life of all things - seized the third of the Eyes and tucked it away in her pack. Apparently this lot were too cunning to snare in such an obvious trap, which was unfortunate because she actually had been hoping that someone else would arrive to back her up before too long.

"Well, it was worth a shot." She said with a shrug, and drew Wytchbrand. It had been Inquisitor Harkon's sword once, and the irony of using the blade of a Mitran priest to further the will of Asmodeus had been sufficiently enticing that she'd taken to carrying it in preference to her original weapon. The fact that it was enchanted with superior quality and could cover itself in flames at a thought was merely an additional bonus, especially when enhanced by her own infernal powers. "Now then. Are you going to put those back, or am I going to have to make you?"

"You'll die trying!" The dwarf roared, spittle flying everywhere as he leapt to the attack. Apparently that was the signal the rest of them had been waiting for, as they each went for their weapons or began summoning obvious auras of mystical energy. Smiling despite herself, for it had been some time since she had been able to enjoy a true fight, Mira went to meet them.

The dwarf was the first one to reach her, hewing at her legs and torso with an oversized axe swung in motions more appropriate for chopping down trees than use on a battlefield. It was a brutally effective style for all its lack of elegance, and Mira only just managed to turn her body in such a way as to catch the strike on the edges of her armour rather than in the flank. The sheer force she could feel behind the strike was impressive, and she had little doubt that the blows would be enough to cut straight through her if she allowed too many of them to land. Beyond him she could see... the elf raising a bow, the gnome casting some sort of spell, and the human wearing vegetables apparently preparing to spring forwards to assist her comrade. So, two warriors, a sorcerer of some kind, and perhaps a Druid? It would explain the unusual fashion sense at least.

Lord Thorn had drilled her extensively on how to fight a group of adventurers or other would-be heroes, apparently under the entirely reasonable assumption that her line of work ran a higher than normal chance of bringing her into contact with such exceptional souls, and as she studied her enemies one of the most critical lessons of all came to mind - never let them set the pace of the battle. This group was evidently well equipped and experienced at working together, and if she let them fall into the same rhythm they had doubtlessly employed so many times before she wouldn't survive long enough to regret her mistake. She needed to upset the scenario somehow, and fortunately her lord and master had provided her with more than enough tools to do just that.

"Asmodeus!" She cried, reaching for the burning energy that lurked within her soul and pushing it out into the world around her through sheer force of will. The infernal energy blasted out from her in all directions with the force of an explosion, and she laughed to see her opponents stagger and bleed under its less than gentle touch. It was a temporary setback for them at best, but it was one she had every intention of capitalizing on, and with that thought in mind she leapt forwards.

The dwarf was quick on his feet despite the burning pain of her spell, lashing out at her with his axe as she darted by, but she had been expecting such a move and spun willingly with the impact as it slammed into her arm. The enchanted steel of his weapon met the blessed protection of her infernal armour and failed, though the sheer force behind the attack was still enough to leave the whole side of her body numb with shock. Such was not even nearly sufficient to stop her, however, and a heartbeat later she was in the enemy's midst.

The ranger cried out in surprise and attempted to back away, but while the sanctum was a large space there simply wasn't a lot of room for complicated maneuvers or effective ranged combat. To her credit the archer realized this after barely a moment had passed, but fast as she was the move still took her momentarily out of the fight and exposed her comrade to much more serious harm. The gnome was waving his hands around desperately, trying to invoke some kind of magic to stop or delay her, and she seized the opportunity ruthlessly. Wytchbrand flickered out, viper fast and sheathed in burning flames, and caught him high on the shoulder where the strap for his backpack rested against his stylish tailored jacket.

Crying out in pain, the gnome was sent spinning away in a welter of blood, the stink of burnt flesh filling the air as his pack slipped from his shoulder and spilled its contents all over the floor. With a shriek of rage the Druid retaliated for her injured comrade, raising her hands and calling out what sounded like a prayer in some unknown tongue. Acting on instinct Mira flung herself sideways, rolling directly over the altar and landing on the far side with a distinct lack of grace. It was just as well she did, for barely a second after she had moved the spot she had been standing in was struck by a searing pillar of lightning, apparently conjured from the stone roof above despite the complete logical impossibility of such a thing.

"Fucking magic." Mira muttered under her breath, making a mental note to prioritize the Druid if at all possible. No one capable of throwing lightning around was a foe to be taken lightly, and while such a capability would ordinarily make the druidess the prime target she currently had some stiff competition for that honoured position. A point neatly underlined by the trio of arrows the elf ranger sent slashing her way, each striking her one after the other across the torso and sending Mira staggering backwards with a bark of pain. Enchanted arrows, then, or perhaps the bow held some form of blessing that allowed it to overcome her infernal plate. Did everyone on this team have the ability to wield magic or carry a weapon enchanted with it? That was impressive and rather deeply unfair if so, especially considering how the advantage of numbers already weighed against her.

"Freeze." Mira snarled at the archer, shaping the word in the infernal tongue even as she called upon the power her faith had granted her, and to her slight surprise and significant pleasure the ranger did just that. Her muscles locked solid and her limbs froze in place as the weight behind the infernal command overrode her own autonomy for the briefest of moments, and Mira smiled as she realized the benefits of this position. She held the altar between her and most of her opponents right now, and that meant that they couldn't stop her reaching the archer before the elf was capable of throwing off the paralysis. She could remove her from consideration with a single thrust into a helpless throat and then turn her attention to the dwarf, safe in the knowledge that the Druid would be occupied stemming her comrade's bleeding.

Unfortunately, she was not the only one who could see the dangers posed by the current situation. The Druid was apparently just as keen of mind as she was and quite used to making battlefield decisions, for she barely even glanced at the unfolding disaster before springing into action.

"Angus, grab Vethia!" She snapped, her voice as stern and commanding as any military officer. "I've got Fineas. We are leaving."

For a moment it appeared that the dwarf wasn't going to listen, his veiny arms bulging with rage and his eyes fixed upon Mira's taunting smile, but apparently whatever bond he shared with the druidess was sufficient to overcome even the battle-frenzy of a true berserker. Growling a curse he snatched up the rigid form of the archer as though she weighed no more than a feather, and then the adventurers turned and began sprinting for the far end of the sanctum.

Bemused, Mira watched them go, trying to work out what their plan was. It was true that she couldn't easily chase them down while encased in heavy armour, and perhaps if they kept their distance until the archer was free again they'd have a better shot at fighting their way free, but if they thought they could make it all the way back down the stairs and through the fortress below without being intercepted they were even more foolish than she had initially imagined.

It was therefore something of a surprise when the four members of the Banner Verdant reached the far end of the sanctum and kept going, throwing themselves over the edge of the small viewing platform installed there and into the empty air without the slightest moment's hesitation. Mira blinked, uncomprehending as she watched them plummet and vanish from sight.

Then, a moment later, rise back into sight once more, the lithe form of the druidess replaced by the massive form of an avian Roc, her three comrades perched on her back and hanging on for dear life.

A shapeshifter, then. Well, that was interesting. Mira honestly hadn't expected her opponents to run, for they had struck her as being far too professional for such a move, and such beings didn't normally flee the scene before their enemies were dead or otherwise incapacitated. Unless...

Slowly, she turned and looked up at the statue of Vetra-Kali that dominated the centre of the chamber. At it's three empty eye sockets.

The Eyes were gone.

"Oh... shit."

Frantic, Mira threw her sword aside and raced over to the bag that she had cut from the shoulder of the gnomish sorcerer in the first few moments of their fight. She needed something, anything to show to Lord Thorn, a way to fix this and... there! A journal! Her breathing harsh and her heart thundering in her chest, Mira tore open the book and began frantically scanning through the last few entries. They had injured, so if she could just find some sort of clue about where their base camp was located she could rally her forces and mount a pursuit. It would be cutting it close if she wanted to get the emeralds back before the next stage of the ritual was required, but she could... she could...

 _What an interesting development today... a holy man, filled with visions and angels and such... gave us an immense pile of information... had Vethia trail the 'Holy Man' and she saw him transform back into a young, dark haired man..._

 _...saw him rendezvous with a pale-haired foreigner with a raven on her shoulder. He called her 'Z'._

...

" _ **Zadaria**_."


End file.
